


For Whom the Bell Tolls

by cloud_wolfbane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Illustrated, M/M, Magical Realism, Slow Burn, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2018-09-27 07:32:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 59,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9982955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloud_wolfbane/pseuds/cloud_wolfbane
Summary: Guardians are disappearing and MI6 has placed their newest Seer, Mycroft Holmes, and unpaired Angel, John Watson, on the case. Back in London, MET Detective Lestrade finds himself working with the world’s most irritating Mage.





	1. The Seer

**Author's Note:**

> I originally started this story two years ago during my hiatus with the intention of adding it to the Intertwined series. It became immediately apparent that the story I wanted to tell was much too large to ever be a one shot. I abandoned it after three chapters until this October when I was inspired to draw a few of the scenes. I now have 10 illustrated chapters and figured it was about time I shared it.
> 
> This has been a labor of love and I hope you enjoy it. This story will update every other Monday, on opposite weeks of The Sky Will Fall Down.
> 
> Also, an endless thank you to my long suffering beta Ilovebeingme, who puts up with my mad story ideas and random questions at all hours.

# Chapter One: The Seer

“Chatterjee.”

“Dalby.”

“Davidson.”

“Eafford.”

“Holmes.”

The envelope he is given is innocuous, simple white paper with the stamp of the Government Occult Department in the right corner. The classroom is filled with chatter as people open their envelopes, comparing scores and gushing over their peers. 

Mycroft is not sitting near anyone, and not a soul dares to ask him about his own test. He opens the envelope, pulling out two pieces of paper. The first is a standard letter, the same Occult Department stamp now in the top center of the page. 

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_Contained with this letter are your results for the Examination for Psychic Abilities (EPAs). The scoring is based on a percentile ranking system compared to the results of your peers and collected data since the EPAs inception in 1887. The EPAs are a generalized measure of Psychic ability and can not test for latent abilities. For a more specific measure of skills, further testing may be required. For any questions or concerns please…_

He stops reading the letter and flips to the second page, his scores. He is not nervous, he doesn’t need to be. Mycroft _knows_ he did well on his EPAs. He knows the way he knew father was getting sick when he was eight. The way he knew the gardner was stealing the silver. Still, his hand shakes as he places the scores in front of him. 

Energy Manipulation: 76%  
Energy Perception: 96%  
Precognition: 99%  
Psychometry: 85%

Under his scores are a collection of useless charts explaining them and at the very bottom of the page there is an embossed symbol. He runs his thumb over the edges of the familiar sigil, though he has never actually seen it in person. It is a stylized eye reminiscent of the Eye of Horus set into a triangle. Under the sigil reads, _“Congratulations, based on your high scores in Energy Perception and Precognition you have been granted the rank of the All Seeing Eye.”_

That is all it says. He flips the paper over, somehow expecting more of an explanation, but the back of the paper is blank. He flips the paper back over to stare at the sigil and feels a spike of unease. 

“Mr. Holmes?”

He looks up to find the classroom long empty and his professor standing in front of him. “Ah, forgive me sir. I was...distracted.” 

The man waves it off, “It’s good that you lingered, the Dean wishes to speak to you. He was quite impressed by your essay on ‘The Ethics of Increased Watcher Runes in City Centers’.”

“Of course, thank you, professor.” Mycroft puts his scores in his satchel and secures it over his shoulder. It is an old thing, aged and scarred leather unsuitable for a Cambridge student, but it had been a gift from his mother. She had built it with her own hands, interweaving every piece with powerful arithmancy runes. A gift much too precious to be scorned simply because of its aged appearance. 

Each step closer to the Dean’s office, sends a warning flare across his senses. With his scores tucked in his bag, he is well aware that it is not the Dean that wishes to speak with him. 

He knocks on the massive, ostentatious door that blocks the entrance to Cambridge’s Dean of Students. As expected, the voice that calls out to him is not the Dean’s. He enters the office to find an middle-aged gentleman leaning against the desk. He’s dressed in a black suit, beautifully tailored to hide the bulge of a gun tucked under his arm.

“Good Afternoon Agent, I admit, I expected MI5 over your department,” Mycroft greets, taking a seat without being offered.

The man huffs. “I see your results were accurate. I am Agent Smith,” the man’s lips quirk in amusement, clearly a false name. “We had intended on sending our more domestic security department, but I believe our department has a mission better suited to your particular...gifts.” 

Mycroft has spent the entirety of his life - all twenty years worth anyways - attempting to control and focus his gifts, but occasionally they seem to respond as if of their own free will. At the word ‘mission’ he gets a feeling of warm light -holy magic- and an overwhelming darkness that sends a shiver up his spine. Interesting, but rather unhelpful. “In what capacity does your particular department wish to employ my...gifts?” 

Agent Smith holds out a business card. It’s thick white cardstock and completely blank. Mycroft takes the card and feels the sharp pulse of a psychic impression. It is forceful, but benign in nature, so Mycroft allows the barest lowering of his shields. The information the card relays is a series of images and the firm knowledge that MI6’s base of operations is located in a series of tunnels hidden in the London underground. He also gets an impression that he should go there tomorrow at 0600. 

“Useful,” Mycroft comments, handing the card back. It had only been imprinted with the one message, the paper is now truly as blank as it had first appeared. 

“We like to think so,” Agent Smith says, tucking the card back into his jacket pocket. “We would like for you to come in for an… interview if you will. Your scores might rank you in the highest combined levels of Precognition and Energy Perception that we have ever recorded, but that does not automatically make you a good Agent.” 

Mycroft notes that none of that statement is actually listed as a request. Still, this has been what he was waiting for, even if he would have prefered MI5’s domestic security instead of MI6’s more international habits. “Then I can only hope that I exceed your expectations, Agent.” 

Smith gives another amused snort, and straightens, “See that you do, Mr. Holmes.” He smooths the lines of his suit and leaves. 

Mycroft checks his watch, the conversation lasted 2.35 minutes.

***

It is winter in London, so the next morning dawns cold and foggy with freezing rain. Mycroft loathes the weather, and hunches beneath his brolly trying not to shiver. He normally avoids the London Underground like the plague, partly because he comes from the sort of people who don’t ride ‘public transportation’, and partly because it doesn’t take a seer of his abilities to know visiting the Underground will most likely get him robbed. 

The section of tunnels, however, that lead to the base are empty of riff raff. Even the refuse looks staged, like an interior decorator had decided that corner needed a few broken beer bottles just so and this corner needed a bit of rotting food. His gift flares up at the wrongness of it, but he shoves it away, he already knows there is something here. 

Agent Smith awaits him at a maintenance door, which would look inconspicuous if it wasn’t reinforced steel with three sets of locks more than normal. 

Mycroft resists the urge to sigh, so much for this so-called ‘secretive’ organization. “Morning,” Mycroft greets politely, though he can’t be bothered to add the ‘good’. 

“This way, please,” Agent Smith ushers him through the door and down an old hall. It actually does look like a maintenance hall and leads through two more sets of reinforced doors before ending at a door guarded by a camera, a fingerprint scanner, and a very forceful barrier spell. 

Crossing the barrier spell is even more uncomfortable than most. It is many decades old and has gathered strength from multiple casters. It hums with desperation and stubbornness and is anchored to the old bricks with a dedication to Queen and country. Obviously a remnant of the war when barriers were made strong with emotion rather than careful planning. 

MI6’s home base is surprisingly open and filled with people. Agents and office workers dart about the large tunnels. Each Agent seems to have a demon servant dogging their steps. He can judge the power level of each Agent based on the type of demon they’ve managed to summon. The most powerful demons appear almost human, only pointed ears or a set of horns giving them away. The weaker demons appear as imps or hell hounds. 

“Each Agent must bind a demon?” Mycroft asks. 

“It is rare that the Agents are sent out in teams, a strong working relationship with a demon servant can mean the difference between life or death,” Agent Smith answers. 

Mycroft narrows his eyes, allowing his vision to slip into the corporeal plane. The Agent’s aura is burnished orange and brown, a sign of steady temperament, strength, and intelligence. Near his heart, however, is a flash of purple-black like a bruise. A demon mark. “You keep your servant hidden in a dimensional pocket,” Mycroft comments. He’s impressed, but he’ll never admit it. 

“A skill that has been very helpful over the years,”Agent Smith comments, leading Mycroft further underground. Mycroft can sense powerful holy magic in the direction they are heading and in his mind’s eye can see the flash of wings. His heart beat quickens, it can’t be. 

“Through here will be your pre-interview, if you will,” Agent Smith presses his palm against a complicated guard sigil before opening the steel door. 

The inside of the room is one massive space, the roof is curved like the rest of the tunnels and about 10 meters in height. The tall walls are lined with small platforms, which appear to contain a mix of toys and balls. 

The floor is segmented by different furniture. One contains desks and a whiteboard like a school, another has a series of cots, and the center of the room is a mix-match of old couches. The aura of holy magic in the room is so strong it sends warm tingles down his fingers. There is a whoosh of wings above his head, he shifts his gaze upwards and is . . . _stunned_.

Agent Smith chuckles, “So you can be surprised.”


	2. The Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mycroft meet.

# Chapter Two: The Angel

No one is quite certain how long angels have been around. Though it is universally agreed that it has been a very, _very_ long time. They come to Earth as falling stars, though where they fall from is in much debate.

What is known, however, is that the angels, young and so very small, come to Earth searching for their One. The one human in the world they are meant to protect and spend the rest of their lives with. A quest for which not all come out successful. 

***

With a twitch of his wings, John glides from one perch to the next. He settles on the edge, leaning forward so his wings can rest comfortably off the sides of the platform. From here he can see the others.

Uriel is on another perch, below and to the right of him. She’s sprawled out on her belly, wings hanging dramatically. 

James is in the area they call the gym, though it’s more of a collection of acrobatics equipment. He’s on the aerial hoop arms locked and legs at a 180, it would be impressive if John didn’t know that with his wings balanced just right, he could hold that pose for hours. 

The others are bored, much like John himself. He sighs, swinging his legs over the perch for a better seat. There’s no class today, their teacher off doing who knows what, though they had been told that Agent Smith would be dropping by. John briefly considers convincing the dour-faced man to take them to the range, but Agent Smith could only be visiting for one reason, Introduction. 

He knows he should be excited about it, each Introduction is another chance to meet his One, but lately it's just been a disappointment. The fact that he’s in a bad mood doesn’t help. There has been a low buzzing in his ears all day, like having a song stuck in his head, except the song is endless static. He wriggles a finger in his ear in an attempt to drive the noise out, but it’s useless. 

“You alright John?” Uriel asks, resting her chin on her forearms so she can look up at him. Uriel’s voice is soft and melodic, the sort of tone John imagines people actually mean by the phrase ‘voice of an angel.’

John, on the other hand, was devastated to learn that angels experience puberty in a manner quite similar to humans, and has been avoiding speaking until his own voice stops cracking at inopportune times. It doesn’t help that he also lives with James, who came out the other end of puberty with a voice like cool steel. Still, he gives a little cough and says, “It’s nothing, just ringing in my ears.” His voice comes out relatively normal, it is the words that make him wince. 

Uriel sits up, attentive. “Ringing?” 

John shakes his head. “Not that kind of ringing, just an annoying buzz.” 

James tucks his body, spinning around the ring and landing with a flare of his wings. The showoff. “John isn’t hearing his bell Uriel, he just has a head cold.” 

“I do not,” John squeeks. He leans forward, ready to launch off the platform, a good tussle would probably help his mood. He’s teetering on the edge when a chill works up his spine. He turns to the door, knowing that Agent Smith must be on his way. The man is a powerful mage, but it is not his magic that draws John’s attention. It’s the demon that lingers in his shadow. The dark magic grates against his senses, leaving a bitter taste at the back of his tongue. 

The door opens with a screech, admitting Agent Smith and another man. The stranger is young, though his three-piece suit hides his age well. From above, his light brown hair has a shimmer of red about it, and he can just make out the sprinkle of freckles across his nose. John ruffles his feathers, the ringing in his ears has gotten worse, but he wants to concentrate on the newcomer.

Uriel flies down first, as the youngest she is still eager for Introduction. The man looks at her, wide-eyed and stunned the way all humans do when confronted with their first sight of an angel. The look quickly shudders, however, when Uriel shakes her head and flies off to another platform. 

It should be his look next, but James steps up. He gives a bow, rather mocking, before flapping his wings and returning to the gym. 

John lingers on the platform, on the edge of the precipice in more ways than one. He tips over, wings extended. His muscles pull, a pleasant ache that guides him in a lazy circle to the ground. He doesn’t mean too, but he’s showing off. The glide shows the full extent of his impressive wings. He pulls them back for a clean landing, feathers arching in a display of white and gold. 

 

  


 

“This is John,” Smith gestures, a smile quirking at his lips. 

John tilts his head and steps forward. The ringing in his ears has become clearer, it is bells, whispers of tones that make his chest ache. This man is not the one for whom his bell tolls, but he is a promise of hope. John feels something loosen in his chest.

He flares his wings out, making his slight form look much larger. “You’re not mine,” he states clearly, “But I think I’ll keep you.” John turns to Agent Smith, curling one of his wings around the man. “He isn’t my One, but someday he’ll lead me to them. I will become his guardian until that day.” 

“Well then,” Smith says, looking surprised, but pleased. “Welcome to MI6 Mr. Holmes.” 

***

The man’s name turns out to be Mycroft Holmes, which is perhaps the most pretentious thing John has ever heard, but judging by the way the man dresses, he’s not all that surprised. 

Smith takes them to Agent Moneypenny’s office to fill out paperwork. John has lived at the Compound for a long time, but the inner workings of MI6 have remained a mystery to him. Still, he rather imagined that becoming an agent of a secret organization would involve less paperwork. 

He wanders around the office, picking up nick nacks. He’s too wired to relax. He wants to be out in the world, under the blue skies again. He’s the closest he has ever been to finding his One and he is being held up by bureaucracy.

“John, child, would you please sit down,” Moneypenny sighs, clearly done with watching him pace. 

“Sorry,” he flushes, wings twitching. John takes the seat beside Mycroft and as he sits back he folds his wings away, making them disappear. He grins at Mycroft’s questioning look, “Can’t walk around with them all the time. I hide them in a transdimensional pocket until I need them. My guns too.” 

“Your guns?” Mycroft asks.

John had dropped that little hint on purpose, cherishing the look of surprise. Judging by what Agent Smith had told him about the man’s seer abilities, he rather suspects it won’t be a look he will see often. John flicks his wrists, feeling the pull of magic as he dips into his pocket. The weight of his pistols are familiar and comforting. 

“Crafted them myself, I’m a fantastic shot, even better than James and his Walther,” John grins, he’s proud of his guns. Every angel crafts a weapon that suits them, the strength of the weapon reflecting the strength of the angel. “This is Trial,” he says, holding up the gun in his right hand. “And Witness,” he holds up the left. He flushes at that, the names might be a bit ridiculous, but he feels they suite. 

“We are very pleased with your progress John, but if you will,” Moneypenny scolds, though her gaze is friendly. 

John flicks his wrist, making the Brownings disappear. He’s embarrassed by the scolding, Moneypenny obviously seeing through his showing off. He isn’t even sure why he wants to impress this man. Mycroft is not his One, the bell did not toll, but he could very well spend a long time with him. 

Angel lifespans are tricky and unpredictable. All angels age like humans until they hit adulthood, at which point things...vary. Some stop aging until they meet their One, while others grow older faster, withering without purpose, and others continue to age like humans. John could follow Mycroft for years before the call of the bells come true. He shakes the thoughts away, refusing to dwell on what-ifs. He focuses instead, on what Moneypenny is saying. 

“Now, we don’t want to send you into the field without so much as a by your leave, so you both will be expected to train for a three month period. John has been trained, but never working with an agent. By the end of the training period if you have not passed the requirements then your position will have to be reassessed,” Moneypenny pauses, as if to stress her point. “You both will be sent to our base in Ireland tonight to begin training, your situation will be… explained to the university.” 

Mycroft narrows his eyes and John, already attuning to his new charge, feels the surge of seer magic. 

“You’re having trouble with Guardians, who tend to be much more helpful to Seers and even more so to angels.” Mycroft states, his gaze is fierce, almost threatening as he pulls from a vision. “While I have no objection to beginning training immediately, I will require a chance to call my brother. If I do not give him some information he will assume something nefarious has occurred and I assure you he will find you.” 

John perks up, curious. A brother? 

Moneypenny looks momentarily startled, but she contains it well. “We have been keeping an eye on your brother and are well aware of his gifts. I will give you a moment to contact him.” She pushes her phone towards him before standing and leaving. 

John can see Mycroft stiffen, tension straining across his shoulders. He leans forward, turning that attention to him and trying to ease it. “Brother?”

“Sherlock, he is a terror, but he is mine,” Mycroft says, some of the stiffness leaving his face. He takes a breath and pulls the phone to him.

The voice that answers is young, close to John’s own age, but filled with Mycroft’s same posh accent. “What do you want? And don’t be dull.”

He has to hide a laugh behind his hand. Sherlock appears to have all of his brother’s highborn airs without any of the politeness. 

“Pleasant as ever brother dear,” Mycroft drawls. 

“Why are you calling? You will be back in two days for break,” Sherlock states this firmly, but John can hear the waver in his tone. It makes him push to the edge of his chair, wishing to offer comfort to a boy he’s never met. 

Mycroft lies, “I have been offered a minor position in the government. It is working for the Department of Transportation, which you may consider dull, but will give me the foundation I need.” He pauses to give Sherlock a chance to speak, but there is only ragged breathing over the line. “I will be unable to contact you for a time, I am unsure when I will return.” There is another pause, and John can tell he is debating his next words. “Behave for Mr. Hawthorne won’t you.” 

Sherlock takes in a sharp breath before he snaps, “Fine.” The line goes dead with a click of finality. 

“Bit not good, don’t you think?” John asks. His words had seemed rather harsh for a brother he claims to care for. 

“I can’t tell him the truth,” Mycroft stands, straightening his suit. “Come along, it seems we’re going to Ireland.” 

John watches him, eyes narrowed. The man is a wall and John suspects it will be a very long time before he is allowed to see behind it. He catches a glimpse though and knows with all certainty that Mycroft is sincere in his worry. “I’ve never been to Ireland.” He leaps from the chair, wings unfurling from the ether. Time for an adventure. 

 

***

John _loves_ Ireland.

The sky is grey as far as the eye can see, broken only by the rise and fall of the surrounding mountains. A pale fog lingers in the dips, making the surrounding greenery all the brighter. 

John takes a deep breath of the moist air, filling his lungs with the cool mist. The land is drenched in magic, old and wild. There is a natural danger in that wilderness, John can feel it across his senses and it makes him grin. 

They are dropped off in northern Ireland, on the outskirts of an ancient forest brimming with wild magicks. The trees ahead of them are giants, branches twisted and petrified. Mist clings to the area, shrouding the trees and casting an eerie light. 

John peers at a warning sign curiously, it isn’t any of the symbology he knows. “What does Cròic de Balor mean?”

Mycroft glances at the sign and sighs, “It roughly translates to Grove of the Demon King.” 

He straightens, looking out at the gnarled forest before them. “Aptly named,” he comments, wings shifting. There is danger in the air, but the pounding of his heart is from excitement not fear. 

“Yes, though I imagine they mean it quite literally,” Mycroft scowls. He opens up the pack he was handed when they had been abandoned. There is an envelope at the top that he opens. 

“Our orders?” He asks, peering around his shoulder. 

“I presume,” Mycroft comments, unfolding the paper within. 

_This forest has been plagued with a demon king. Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to locate the demon king and banish him to the outer realms. Beware the Fomoiri that guard the depths. Good Luck._

“I thought they said they didn’t want to drop us in the middle of a mission, that seems to be exactly what they’re doing,” John remarks looking out at the looming wilderness. They hardly know one another, and now MI6 wants them to banish a high level demon together. This can’t end well. 

Mycroft scoffs and lets a spark of fire-magic devour the letter in his hands. 

John has to laugh at that. “My sentiments exactly. Are you ready?”

“No,” Mycroft says flatly, but there is amusement around his eyes. “Come on then.”

Together, they step into the mist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus Image:
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> This image isn't inspired by any particular scene, I just wanted to try to draw John with one of his guns and it was another excuse to draw his wings. He is actually suppose to be 14 which I totally failed at, so consider it like on of those movies where they cast the 20-something actor as the high schooler. 


	3. The Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade gets a new case and a new...partner?

# Chapter Three: The Detective

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Lestrade rolls over, pulling the duvet over his head. 

Beep. Beep. Beep. 

He groans. 

Beep. Beep. Be...Crunch!

The sound of his fist connecting with the alarm clock is immensely satisfying. He goes back to sleep. 

His wakes in a jolt, shooting up from the bed in a flurry. “Shite, not again.” He glances at his alarm clock, but its shattered remains fail to tell him the time. Judging by the light streaming through his curtains, he’s late. 

Lestrade flings open his closet doors. The hangers are pitifully empty, his laundry in a pile beneath. He had meant to do the washing the day before, but had come home so late his only interest had been his pillow. He pulls a blue collared shirt from the middle of the pile and gives it a sniff. It is a bit wrinkled, but it’ll do. He grabs a grey suit that looks free of stains and the cheap polyester holds true to it’s wrinkle-free claim. 

He throws on the clothes, and falls into the bathroom. His hair has a stray bit sticking up in the back, he tries to force it down with some water, but it just springs back up. He sighs and gives his reflection a scowl, his hair seems to grow more silver with each passing day. 

He gives up on grooming, grabs his badge from the bowl by the door, and takes the stairs two at a time. 

Traffic is it’s usual chaos, but he manages to weave his way to his favorite cafe in record time. The queue at the register is to the door, the morning patrons looking fit to riot. Lestrade is saved the madness by a wave at the counter. 

“Here you go Greg, your usual,” the barista greets him with a grin and two cups. 

“You’re a lifesaver Holly, ta” Lestrade passes her a tenner and takes the cups. 

“Let me get your change, it’ll only take a tic.” 

Lestrade waves her off, “Don’t be ridiculous, keep it.” 

Holly rolls her eyes, but doesn’t complain. “Have a good day, Detective!”

“Will do,” he calls back, shouldering his way out the door. He doesn’t even have time to sip his drink before he is back on the road, fighting the traffic. By the time he pulls up to Scotland Yard, he’s 45 minutes late. 

Sergeant Sally Donovan is waiting for him at the door. She’s dressed in a smart pant suit, starched within an inch of its life, and her hair is pulled into such a tight bun that the edges of her eyes are narrowed. 

“Sally!” he greets with a broad smile, holding out the other cup like a shield. He can always judge her mood by the tightness of her bun, this is a defcon 2. 

She scowls at him. “Forty-five minutes.” 

“I know,” he winces, “Though you have to admit that’s not actually that bad for me.” 

She takes a sip of her coffee and the scowl lessens. “You are so lucky you got that break in the robbery, or you would have never made Sergeant.” 

“I am well aware,” he gives a wry grin before moving to enter the building. 

She stops him with a hand and takes a long drag on her coffee until he starts to get nervous. “We have a case,” she says, lowering the cup. “The Norms just called it in, come on.” 

“Oh,” Lestrade tosses her the keys, “so I was right on time then.” 

Sally snorts, shaking her head as she slides into the driver’s seat. “Come on, you.” 

Sally drives like a Londoner, which is to say quickly and with abandon. Lestrade would fear for his life if they weren’t in a police car, people tend to get out of the way, siren or no. She stops them at one of the service entrances to the London Underground where another police car is already parked. 

Lestrade tips his head in greeting to the constable guarding the door and follows Sally. It is one of the abandoned tunnels, the structure built before lack of funds prevented the tracks from being installed. Usually this sort of place would be rife with homeless, but the tunnel is empty of any signs of habitation. The only hint that the tunnels occasionally attract attention is the bright yellow graffiti on the walls. 

They run across the other officers about a kilometer down the tunnel, their spot lights marking the way. Detective Dimmock meets them with a grimace, “This is definitely one for the MET.” He steps aside, revealing a dead body and the clean lines of a summoning circle. 

“Not another one,” Sally growls, stepping up to the body. 

Lestrade takes in the scene. The victim is a young male, no older than twenty, just a kid really, in a ratty hoodie and jeans. He leans down, checking the bottom of the shoes. “There’s a bit of ink on his soles, stepped past the barrier circle I reckon.” 

“Probably another homeless kid with a bit of the gift hoping to summon a demon for some help,” Dimmock comments, “But you know, not my division.” 

“Wrong!” The voice is sudden and sends a spike of alarm across Lestrade’s senses. He stands, spinning to face the newcomer. 

Sally is already on the defensive, a talisman in her hand. Demons that break out of summoning circles can only last a day or two without a contract to sustain them. Unless they drain human life, that is. 

There is a man standing at the edge of the light, and Lestrade has no idea how he got so close without making a noise. His face is in shadow, but his eyes spark with the silver-blue glow of the Fae. 

“Step into the light,” Lestrade orders, fingers clenched around the athame in his coat. 

The person that steps forward is just a kid, maybe twelve, but looks can be deceiving. His face is pale and narrow, made even sharper by his prominent cheekbones. With his dark hair in a riot of curls and the strange shimmer to his eyes, he certainly looks like something that might step from a summoner’s circle. 

It is his coat that gives Lestrade pause. It is a rather dramatic belstaff, with the collar popped up and the tails flowing around his feet, though there is no wind. The left lapel has a bit of red stitching that winks at him. “You’re wearing a summoner’s cloak,” he says, surprised. 

They are rare things, summoner’s cloaks. They have to be earned by years of study and practice and are brought into creation by the summoner themselves. A sentient piece of clothing with the sole purpose of protecting their owner. No one but the summoner can wear their cloak. Lestrade can feel the power in its weave, and wonders at how a kid could have produced such a thing.

The boy grins, teeth bared like a shark, “Excellent, at least one of you has a bit of brain, perhaps you’ll actually listen then.”

“Hey you little shit, this is an active crime scene. You need to leave,” Sally snarls, tucking her talisman away at Lestrade’s announcement. 

“No wait,” Lestrade interrupts. The glare he receives is down right deadly, but he stands his ground. There is something about this kid. “Let him explain himself. What did you mean wrong?” 

The boy fixes Sally with a smug look. “He isn’t homeless and this was more than some novice summoning.” He points at the shoes, “You noticed the ink, but failed to notice the most important bit. Those shoes are brand new and in good nick.” 

“He could have stolen them,” Sally points out. 

“Perhaps, if you ignore everything else about him.” He kneels down, coat tails flaring out to avoid the muck, and grabs the victim’s hand despite protests. “See the callouses here, and the staining. He’s been doing ink work with a quill. Rather old fashioned, unless you are studying summoning and learning advanced circles.” 

He stands, walking to the other side of the body, no one stops him. “These jeans are well worn, a favorite pair, but not dirty. They were washed recently, same with the hoodie. He gestures to the faded symbol on the shirt, interlocking triangles set as a star. “That is the sigil for the Summoner’s College of London, judging by the wear and the staining on his fingers, he has been training for at least 2 years.”

He kneels again, brushing his fingers through the circle. He sniffs the residue and hums. “Yes, as I thought. It isn’t ink, it is a blood mixture used for summoning more powerful creatures. His circle was done perfectly. Are you telling me that an advanced summoner in his 2nd year of training would be stupid enough to accidentally step on his own circle?” 

Lestrade kneels at his side, with a closer look he can tell that what he thought was black ink is actually a dark maroon. It even has the coppery scent of dried blood. “Did you know him?” It is quite possible that they go to the same university. 

The boy scoffs, “No, but I know what I see.” 

“This is madness,” Sally interrupts, “This kid just walked all over the evidence spouting nonsense, and you’re going to believe him?” 

She has a point, he knows she does, but Lestrade feels like he can believe this kid, and he always trusts his gut. He holds out his hand, “Detective Sergeant Lestrade. Can you prove any of that?”

The boy takes his hand, looking pleased. “Sherlock Holmes, and yes, but I’ll need a lab.” 

Lestrade gives Sally his best puppy eyes. “Will you give us a lift to Barts?”

She tilts her head back, her usual prayer for patience. “Yeah alright, but you’re writing the report. I’m not going to explain to the chief that you got help from some crazy, preteen summoner.” 

Sherlock glares at her, even his coat looks offended. “I’m fourteen,” he growls.

“Oh, yes,” Sally cackles, “that’s much better.” She leaves them to pick up the evidence with a flippant wave. Dimmock and his team follow her. 

Lestrade sighs, “This will come back to bite me.” He looks over to find Sherlock ignoring him, kneeling over the circle with a fist full of evidence bags. He touches his pocket and finds his own bags missing. “Did you pick my pocket?”

Sherlock doesn’t even bother to look at him. “Don’t ask stupid questions.” 

Lestrade tilts his head back, praying for patience. This is definitely going to come back to bite him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple of things about this chapter:
> 
> First, Sherlock's coat is absolutely based on Dr. Strange's Cloak of Levitation, I'm not gonna lie. 
> 
> Second, Sherlock is really hard to draw. 
> 
> Third, If you are confused by the sudden change of scenery, this story is designed in sets of two. First two chapters following Mycroft and John, second two following Lestrade and Sherlock. Hope that isn't too confusing, it'll make more sense as I get more chapters up.


	4. The Consultant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Lestrade on the case.

# Chapter Four: The Consultant

Sherlock isn’t one to be easily surprised, but he’ll admit - if only to himself - that he did not expect his deductions to go over so well. Sergeant Donovan obviously doesn’t trust him, glaring at him even as she drops them off at Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital. Lestrade, on the other hand, trusts him with the sort of ease that seems unlikely in a man with so much grey in his hair.

“This way,” Lestrade calls leading him down to the labs with the assuredness of someone who has been here many times before. 

“You went to school here,” Sherlock shakes his head, “No, you know someone that went to school here, not an ex. Old friend from your criminal justice degree.” 

Lestrade hums, unsurprised. “Yeah, Molly. She was in the forensics program, but changed tracks and went to medical school.” 

Sherlock narrows his eyes, focusing, but Lestrade makes as little sense now as he did at the crime scene. His aura is strange, obviously magical, but not consistent with any of the disciplines he’s familiar with, and Sherlock is familiar with all of them. At best guess his aura has the feel of a sorcerer, certainly elemental, but Sherlock doesn’t guess, so he holds off on that deduction for now. 

They stop at the molecular lab, left unlocked by Lestrade’s friend and all the instruments turned on. Sherlock moves to the one he needs and starts preparing the collected sample for analysis. 

“You do know how to use these, right?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock snaps. Idiot man, as if Sherlock would ask to use a lab without knowing how to use the equipment. It is a slow and tedious process, so Sherlock turns to Lestrade to entertain himself. “Sergeant Donovan is a Class 8 Enchanter.” 

Lestrade gives a long, slow blink. “Er, yes,” his eyes narrow, “and you know that how.” 

Sherlock grins, pleased to show off. “When I approached she pulled a talisman from her belt, carved ironwood imbued with a repellent charm. The MET supplies standard enchantments, but ironwood isn’t one of them.” He gestures at Lestrade’s belt, “She had a full stock of enchantments, but you are only wearing one. That’s an obsidian bullet, hand carved, and enchanted for protection. She thinks quiet highly of you Detective, obsidian can only be enchanted by a class 7 or higher, but the protective ward used on it is class 8. She would use the most powerful protection spell she knows for her partner, thus class 8.”

“Huh,” Lestrade huffs, a smile curling at his lips. “So you’re a mage then?”

Sherlock scowls, tugging off his coat and flinging it behind him. It gives a flutter of irritation before stilling to float. “Yes, of course. Did you think I was just a summoner?” He walks around the table and takes a seat at one of the high powered microscopes - if only they had such equipment at school. 

Lestrade laughs and gives his coat a pointed look, “I doubt you’re _just_ anything.” 

Sherlock decides to ignore him, focusing instead on his sample, but he can’t quite hide his pleased smile. 

It takes hours and is late evening when Sherlock gets the sample broken down into its base components. The results are… less than satisfactory. “Damn.”

“Huh, what is it?” Lestrade jerks awake, having given in and fallen asleep at the far end of the table.

He holds up the print out. “The ash was easily identified as being burned feathers, and we already knew there was blood mixed in. The third component was dirt. From the pH and granular size I can determine that the dirt was not from the tunnels, but the mix of contaminates makes it impossible to identify an exact location.” 

“Dead end?” 

Sherlock grits his teeth, “For now. Though the mixture and the circle were the components of a class 10 summoning, possibly higher.” 

Lestrade winces. “That’s not good. The Summoner’s College have their fair share of summonings gone wrong, but I can’t imagine a student leaving the protective wards on campus to try something so dangerous.”

“Which begs the question of what, exactly, he was trying to summon?” Sherlock flicks his fingers and his coat comes to him, slipping over his arms and curling around his shoulders. 

Lestrade checks his watch and tsks. “Well, we aren’t finding out tonight. It’s late, what’s your address? Sally dropped the car off hours ago, so I can drop you off.”

“It’s no matter,” Sherlock waves him off, “I’ll take a cab.”

“Ha, no. I need to speak to your parents and I can’t let you take a cab back this late.” 

Sherlock bristles. “I am not a child, I certainly do not need to be coddled Detective. I can make my way home without issue.” 

Lestrade, unfortunately, stands firm. “I need to speak to your parents, old enough to take a cab by yourself or not.” 

There’s always something, Sherlock resists the urge to curse. “I don’t live in London.” There, offer as little information as possible, perhaps the detective will back down. 

Lestrade narrows his eyes. “Where are you from?” 

“London.” 

“Alright,” Lestrade glares, “let me try that again. Where is your house?” 

Sherlock sighs, “Cornwall.” 

“What?” Lestrade rears back, eyes comically wide. “That’s almost 5 hours away.” 

“I took the train, it’s fine.”

“It is not fine,” Lestrade growls. “The trains won’t be running that way this late. What were you planning on doing? Taking a cab all the way to Cornwall or sleeping rough for the night?”

“I could get a hotel,” Sherlock objects. 

“Do you have any money?” 

Sherlock huffs, “Not as such.” He has about 5 quid in his wallet, having spent almost everything getting to London, but it wouldn’t be difficult to pick a pocket or two to get what he needs. 

Lestrade slaps his palm to his brow and groans, “Lord help me.” He pulls his car keys from his pocket. “Come on then, you can crash on my couch. We’ll call your parents and tell them you haven’t been kidnapped.” 

“We will do no such thing. My parents are well aware of my location.”

Lestrade quirks a brow, “So they know you’re in London working with the police?”

“No, not exactly,” Sherlock mutters. 

Lestrade stares at him, waiting. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “No they do not know where I am, but your concern is unwarranted. There is no one home, certainly not anyone to report my nonexistent kidnapping.” 

Lestrade softens,” Are they…”

Sherlock huffs, “Oh spare me. They are enjoying what I am sure is a dreadfully dull Christmas cruise. My useless blob of a brother was supposed to come,” he sneers, “look after me, but decided he had more important business to attend to. I had no interest in expiring of boredom in the countryside, so I came to London.” 

Lestrade gives him a look that isn’t exactly pity, but is perhaps a close cousin. “Come on then,” he sighs. Sherlock is tempted to make a run for it, but he doesn’t much fancy sleeping rough and it’s in his best interest to make ‘friends’ with the detective. 

The flat is a cramped studio with the haphazard clutter of a long term bachelor. There is no kitchen table, just a counter with two old bar stools which, judging by the staining, did once belong to a bar. The couch looks equally second hand and what he can see of the bed, half hidden behind a screen, is a cheap mattress on an even cheaper frame. 

“Quaint,” Sherlock comments, ignoring the fact that he sounds like Mycroft. 

Lestrade wags his finger at him like he’s an errant schoolboy. “Hush you, we can’t all be posh public school boys from Cornwall.” 

Not dignifying that with an answer, Sherlock throws himself down on the couch, it's surprisingly comfortable. Lestrade tosses his mobile phone at him, landing on his chest with a soft thunk. He glares at it. “I told you, my parents are on a cruise.” 

“Call your brother then. Someone needs to know where you are.” Lestrade flings his suit jacket on the back of the mismatched recliner, before taking a seat. 

“You know where I am,” Sherlock snarks. 

Lestrade glares at him. 

Sherlock sighs,”Fine, fine.” He taps out Mycroft’s number and tosses the phone on the counter. The phone rings twice before picking up with a click. 

“Mycroft Holmes speaking.” 

Lestrade stares at him, but he ignores it, flopping over on the couch. 

“Um yes, hello,” Lestrade stutters, some detective. 

Silence reigns for exactly five seconds before Mycroft’s smug tone sounds over the tiny speaker. “Sherlock.” 

Sherlock rolls over so he can properly scowl at the phone. “That’s cheating.” 

“Using all available resources can hardly be considered cheating. Now where are you? Whose phone is this?” 

“Can’t you deduce it?” Sherlock snarls, sitting up.

“Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade interrupts. “This is Detective Sergeant Greg Lestrade with the Metropolitan Extrasensory Taskforce. Your brother has been helping us with a case.” 

There’s a breath over the phone. “My fourteen year old brother,” Mycroft drawls, “is helping the London Magi with a case?”

“Oh shove it brother dearest. I’m more than capable of handling myself,” he snaps. 

Lestrade opens his mouth to either protest or explain, but Mycroft cuts in. “I have no doubt that you can handle London, I’m less certain if London can handle you.” 

Lestrade snorts, “That might be an accurate assessment, however, he has proved...useful to the case.” 

Sherlock sputters. “Useful! I’ve been invaluable. You nearly ruled the case an accident.” 

“As much as I’m sure that’s true,” Mycroft’s tone is smug, “you should be home, not traipsing around London. You’ll get yourself killed.” 

“I have no interest in wasting away in Cornwall while my mind devours itself from boredom.”

There’s a long sigh over the phone. 

“Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade interjects, “I understand your concern, it’s why I told Sherlock to contact you. I give you my word that I will keep an eye on your brother.”

Sherlock turns the full force of his glare on the detective. Lestrade is sitting up straighter, practically preening over the phone. “I don’t need an eye kept on me,” he spits. 

“Thank you Detective, that would be much appreciated. Keep me informed,” Mycroft says and the phone cuts off with a click. 

“You’ll keep an eye on me? I don’t need a keeper,” Sherlock snaps. 

Lestrade gives him a pointed look. “No, of course not, you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself.” He leans forward, taking the phone off the table. From the number of his clicks, he’s saving Mycroft’s number into his contacts. 

“I didn’t think posh was your type,” Sherlock drawls, playing up his accent. 

Lestrade huffs, tossing a pillow at his head. “Go to sleep, we have an early morning of crime solving ahead of us.” 

Sherlock grabs the pillow, tucking it under his head. He has no intention of sleeping, but the couch is as good a place as any to think. He presses his palms together, touching his fingers to his lips and slips into his mind palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has been great for helping be practice drawing. I wasn't sure what I wanted to draw when I first wrote this chapter and my beta suggested the scene that I did. On my own I never would have chosen to do two people (three if you count the coat) with a background. I'm aware it is a really simple background, but it is just not something I ever do, so it was pretty cool to setup an actual scene instead of just situating one character in the center of the page. 
> 
> Also, because I never described it very well, the chapter intro pic is the symbol of the Summoner's College.


	5. Cròic de Balor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and John start learning how to work together.

# Chapter Five: Cròic de Balor

The warning circles are a very clear “Keep Out”, they sting as Mycroft and John walk through them. Mycroft pushes away the voice in the back of his head that wants him to turn around, turn around _right now_.

“That’s unpleasant,” John scowls, fluffing out his wings like he’s shaking off water. 

“This way,” Mycroft says, walking briskly towards a small break in the trees. Mist curls around his ankles, sending cold shivers up his legs, but he knows that this particular path is the right one. 

John, surprisingly, doesn’t question it. He follows close behind, Witness clenched in his left hand. He seems to bring a sort of golden glow with him that chases away some of the overpowering gloominess of the forest. 

Mycroft lets his gift guide the way, he stretches out his mind searching for possibilities. He doesn’t actually get visions of the future, more like impressions of what could be. There is a sense of cold and hate to the left that suggests a ghoul lurking, a screech to the right that hints at a banshee. Straight ahead, however, there is an feel of cold and damp, of dark energy and rage. 

In the demon forest John’s light sends the weaker demons scurrying, they avoid his glow with hisses of discontent and minor curses. Balor, however, is no minor demon, and Mycroft worries about the temptation of a young angel to such darkness. John is still a child, having obtained only his first set of wings. It would be years yet before he could obtain the title of seraphim, and later archangel and even then, many considered it impossible for an angel to ascend without the help of their chosen. 

_‘What luck,'_ Mycroft thinks, _'they send a seer with no combat training and an Angel that’s basically a child, to subdue a demon king.'_

“It’ll be okay,” John soothes, bumping his shoulder against Mycroft’s, “You’ll see.” 

He wants to scoff, because he _can_ see, but the possibilities of what are to come are surprisingly optimistic, and isn’t that just the thing. 

***

The warning in the letter “ _Beware the Fomoiri that guard the depths_ ,” begins to make sense as they come across a giant bog hidden amongst the towering trees. The bog stinks of death, decay, and hate. The swamp is made even more dangerous by the heavy fog that lingers between the trees, obscuring solid ground from muck. 

“Mycroft,” John whispers, pressing against his side, “I don’t like this.” The young angel stares out at the bog with distrust, his fist is clenched so tightly around his gun that his knuckles are white. 

“Nor do I,” Mycroft grimaces, his gift is running rampant with the possibilities, and no matter how hard he tries, he can find no way of making it through without a fight. “Stay close,” he says, and steps into the fog. 

They pick their way carefully from patch to patch of solid ground, until Mycroft’s gift roars. “To the right,” he warns. 

A great beast bursts from the depths. It has a man-shaped form, but its limbs are emaciated, all bone and scaled skin. The creature has a head like a goat, with slick fur and curled horns. It’s mouth gaping in a piercing screech.

John doesn’t hesitate, he swings his gun around and shoots three bursts of light. They hit center mass on the fomoir, the light seeming to be absorbed by the dark creature before bursting outward with the beast’s final wail.

Whether lured by the holy light or the call, the bog explodes with action, Fomoiri clawing from the muck with angry cries, their screech deafening. 

Mycroft constructs a barrier of pure thought. Shield magic was one of the first constructive magics Mycroft learned, and it’s one of his strongest spells. This time his shield is transparent, the edges tinged with the violet shade unique to his magic. The shield takes the form of steel walls enclosing them in a cube of protection. 

John summons his second gun with a flick of his wrist and continues shooting down the Fomoiri clawing at the shield. “They’re water based demons, right?” he asks, spinning around to shoot one of the creatures creeping up behind them. 

“Yes, they act as Balor’s servants and guard dogs, the king will be in deeper water further on,” Mycroft says, pulling up his notes on Irish demons in his mind’s eye. “Water,” he gasps, John’s question sparking a vision. He kneels down in the muck and begins drawing rune after rune into the mud, trusting John to hold the creatures back. 

“What are you doing?” John asks, moving his weapons with practiced ease as he shoots the demons, but his light is fading and there is sweat at his brow. The Fomoiri are drawing ever closer, their noise filling the woods as the burst from the bog. 

Destructive spells have never been one of Mycroft’s specialities, and he has not spent much time learning them, unlike Sherlock who tended to set rune traps all around the house for unsuspecting servants. On such trap Mycroft had memorized after Sherlock had nearly burned the house down in his carelessness. He built the same circle now, imbuing each rune with raw power. 

“Get behind me,” Mycroft warns, and the moment John is out of harm’s way he activates the circle. The runes glow with violet-blue light, sparks of energy jumping off of it before the spell shoots forward with a crashing boom. The spell is blinding, and Mycroft has to shut his eyes against the onslaught of blinding light. 

The Fomoiri scream, a high pitched wail that burrows into their brains, but it is short lived as the spell does its work. When Mycroft opens his eyes, watering and blinking rapidly against the bright spots across his vision, the creatures are gone. The only hint they had ever been there is the fluttering of ash and the sharp scent of ozone. 

“Whoah,” John whistles. 

“Water demons, “ Mycroft coughs, his hands are shaking and he feels jittery all over. The spell had been more draining than he expected, he feels tired and wrung-out. “A powerful lightning spell will bounce from demon to demon when they swarm like that.”

“Is that all of them,” John asks, searching the fog. 

“No,” Mycroft shakes his head, “but the rest will have retreated into the depths to hide.” 

“Brillant,” John grins, “to Balor?”

Mycroft gives a sharp nod, “to Balor.” 

***

At the center of the demon woods is a lake, and in the center of the lake is a hut. The wood is green with age and moss, the boards of the hut held together by magic alone. 

“It stinks,” John comments covering his mouth and nose with his hand. 

Mycroft is inclined to agree. The bog smells like rot and death, and the feel of the blight-magic against his senses is enough to bring up bile.

“Foolish creatures,” Balor’s voice is a rumble, a thrum of sound that is more felt than heard. The hut shudders, ripples extending outward as the boards shake and tremble. “You’ve brought me a lovely snack mortal.” With a clatter the hut bursts open, cracked like an egg to reveal the demon king. 

He is a massive creature, heavily muscled and reeking of old power, skin dark green and black like a rotting limb. He has a humanoid shape, but stands at least 10 meters tall, the deep water of the lake barely reaching his knees. “It has been too long since I tasted aingil flesh,” the beast leans over, lips curling in what might have been a smile but for the rows of fangs. 

“Ahh, how about not,” John says, taking a step back, his wings flaring out instinctively. 

With his perception, Balor appears like a mass of black flame on the ethereal plane, but his brow is marked with a sickly light that promises destruction. Mycroft takes in the sight of the demon; of his great horns, his eyes like toxic waste, and the filthy fabric wrapped around his head, hiding away some great power and wonders how the two of them are suppose to subdue this monster. 

“Another one of those lightning spells would be really useful right now?” John has both his pistols pointed at the demon, tendons straining with the strength of his grip. 

“I can’t,” Mycroft isn’t sure he could form much more than a few shielding spells at the moment. 

“Shite,” John curses and fires. Flashes of holy magic come from his guns in bursts, striking Balor one after the other. The light flickers and dies, not leaving behind so much as a mark. 

Balor throws his head back with a roaring laugh. “Little aingil, I cannot believe they let one so small out of the nest, I’ve been picking my teeth with the feathers of seraphim since the Great War.” He moves forward, clawed hand sinking into the muck of the shore. His great head looms over them, his nostrils flaring with each noisey inhale. “I haven’t tasted such a youngly, how tender you must be.” 

“I don’t think so,” John growls, jumping backwards with a grand sweep of his wings. 

Mycroft follows after him, shoes stick in the mud, making every step a challenge, but Balor is much too close. 

The demon laughs at their mad scramble. With a wave of his hand a barrier forms in the tree line, circling the lake. They’re trapped. “I think I will try my meal roasted,” he taunts, and starts to unwind the cloth covering his brow. 

As the fabric unwinds the air grows hot, it becomes a physical thing, clinging to them as the temperature rises. Mycroft risks a backwards look at Balor. He can still see the powerful light hiding behind the cloth. It reeks of destructive energies. Looking at him now though, Mycroft gets a flash of possibility. 

“John,” Mycroft calls, gesturing for the angel to come closer. He has an idea, a ridiculous idea. “He has a weak point, in the center of his forehead where his power cycles.” 

“Yeah in his third eye that will boil us in our bones if it is completely uncovered. That’s not much of a weak point,” John snaps.

“Third eye?” 

“Yeah, that’s what’s under the cloth. Irish mythology,” John looks sheepish, “they made me read a lot of mythology.”

Mycroft looks back at Balor, he seems unconcerned with their plotting, as he unwraps another layer, the heat increases. The water around the demon churns and the foliage grows brown, wilting. “Trust me,” Mycroft pleads. “I’ll give you time, you just have to shoot.”

John clenches his teeth, but nods his agreement, coming to stand beside him. 

Mycroft doesn’t have much energy left, but he uses what he has to draw the water of the lake to him. Water shields hardly take any energy, even less if he doesn’t have to summon the water out of the air. The lake curls around them, a dome of grey liquid. He puts all he has into the shield, strengthening it until the water glows violet with runes. 

John laughs looking up at the shield swirling around them. “You’re mad.” 

“Be ready, it won’t hold long,” Mycroft’s arms are shaking from the strain. “Don’t miss.” 

“I’ve never had boiled aingil,” Balor taunts, turning to face them as he unwraps the last layer of cloth. The air hisses, water steaming. 

Mycroft cannot see the eye, the power it produces shrouds it in fiery light. The shield shudders, rolling wildly in the heat. He concentrates his power on slowing the molecules, a process that keeps the shield just cool enough not to boil them alive. “Now John!”

John’s wings glow golden, the holy energy pouring off him in waves, gathering in his weapons. The instant the shield cracks, the smallest sliver between the waves, he fires. 

The shot must hit true, because the heat disperses. Balor roars, cursing them in demonic as the light tears him apart from the inside out. A white glow starts in his third eye, working outward in fine cracks along his body. He claws at his head, scoring great gouges as he tried to claw the holy magic out of him. 

The light expands, growing stronger until it encompasses his whole body, with a final scream his body folds inward sucked into the eye as Balor is inverted and banished with a puff of foul smoke. 

“I can’t believe that worked,” John gasps staring at the space Balor had been. The demon is gone, only the dead grass shows that he had ever been there. 

Mycroft collapses, splattering his clothes with mud. He can feel the warm muck sinking to his skin, but doesn’t care. His magic is drained, the channels of his focus scraped raw. “Neither can I,” he admits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when I first started this story Sherlock wasn't going to show up until Chapter 12 or so and Lestrade was suppose to be a cameo, and this was originally chapter 3. The drawing of the Fomoir was actually the first drawing I did for this story, and I was so pleased with the results that I ended up drawing John and then Agent Smith. After that it just seemed silly not to continue writing on this story, so really this chapter is the reason I decided to pick this story back up again.


	6. Tools of the Trade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MI6 has more than a few tricks up their sleeves.

# Chapter Six: Tools of the Trade

John has met nonmagi before. When he was very young, a newborn angel wandering the streets of London, he had walked among the homeless in the hidden places. A great many of them had been nonmagi. The lack of magic had set his teeth on edge, an absence that felt like death, but he could not see their suffering and do nothing. It had been dangerous he’s sure, looking no more than four by human terms, his angelic nature obvious in his white blond hair and sapphire eyes, his wings in the open, still soft with down. But he had not been harmed, those in the dark had treated him with reverence, and so he had helped where he could. Offering fire spells, purifying water and food until the Agents had found him and whisked him away.

He remembers that time now. Mycroft is less than a meter away, collapsed in a heap. For just a moment John can’t feel his magic, feels the same emptiness he had felt all those years ago, but no, his magic is just drained, like a inferno reduced to the flicker at the end of a matchhead. 

John walks over, kneeling at his side. He wishes he could lend him his power, if Mycroft was his One he could boost his magicks with ease. Trying such a thing unbonded would only burn out his core, either killing him or leaving him as the nonmagi John had initially feared. 

Instead, he shakes Mycroft’s shoulder, “Are you alright?”

Mycroft sits up with some effort. “Fine,” he winces, breathing hard, “just magic exhaustion.”

Clapping fills the area, a steady noise that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. John spins around, using his own body as a shield, guns at the ready.

The source of the clapping comes from behind them. Agent Smith is leaning against a tree at the edge of the woodline. “I give you boys points for style, no one has ever tried something so idiotic before.”

“You were watching,” John snarls, pointing Trial at him, hands steady. 

“I gotta admit,” Agent Smith steps towards them, “I almost interfered when he started to uncover his eye, but I wanted to see if the water shield would work. It should have boiled you.” 

“Slowed the molecules,” Mycroft explains, getting to his feet with John’s help. His clothes are filthy.

“Uses less energy than an ice shield, but still keeps the water cool, clever,” Agent Smith nods, looking grudgingly impressed. “Mind, you both were reckless and over extended yourselves and would certainly die trying to leave the forest, but that is rather the point of these assessments.” 

“Assessments?” John flares his wings out, a shimmer of gold sparking across his form. It is more bluff than real power, but his exhaustion is nothing compared to his fury. “We could’ve died.” 

Smith waves off his concern, ”I would have stepped in, now come along. I need to get you two back to HQ.” He turns around without waiting for a response, already heading into the forest. 

John shoots Mycroft a questioning look. He’s not sure why he trusts him to make a decision about this mess, but he had led them through the forest relatively unharmed, and when it came to it he trusted John to make his shot. He thinks, perhaps, that he can return the favour. Mycroft gives a sharp nod. They follow Smith.

They make their way out of the forest much faster than getting into it. Agent Smith makes each step with the confidence of one who has made this trip many times in the past. Not a single demon tries to attack them, which is rather astonishing considering that it is still a demon forest, Balor or no. 

Mycroft manages to keep pace, but just barely. John keeps a close eye on him, watching the man pick his way through the woods with the glazed look of the bone-weary. He wants to offer his help, but even in such a short time he knows his offer would be rebuffed, and so doesn’t bother. 

Instead, John follows Mycroft’s gaze to where it has fixed on Smith’s second shadow. Perhaps sensing his concentration, the shadow changes form. It’s hair turns into a spiky mess, framing long, pointed ears. Two eyes, formed simply by an absence of shadow, peer up at him. The mouth that forms from the darkness is all angles and sharp teeth. The shadow moves on its own, waving cheekily at him before settling back into shape. 

“Agent Smith,” Mycroft calls, warningly. 

“Don’t mind him, he’s just keeping an eye on things,” Agent Smith says, unconcerned. 

Mycroft narrows his eyes, and John can feel his focus sharpen. “A shade?” he asks.

“Not exactly,” is all he’ll say on the matter. 

John is tempted to tell him that the shadow is a Nalusa Falaya, bonded to Agent Smith in the swamplands of Louisiana many years ago. The creature is only suppose to attack those with evil thoughts, but it still makes John uneasy. The Nalusa is a soul eater, looking at it feels like gazing into a black hole. He purposefully turns his gaze from it and tries to ignore the chill working between his wings. 

Outside of the Demon Forest, Agent Smith leads them to an old jeep he had stashed for the return journey. The wind is deafening as they bounce along the countryside. The ride is jarring, but John soon finds himself acting as a pillow when Mycroft drops into his shoulder. 

They stop at a castle about an hour away from the forest. It is a grand old thing, all grey stone and climbing ivy. It is nestled between verdant hills and a sprawling lake, looking more like a tourist advert than the headquarters for a spy organization. 

“This is HQ?” John asks, staring up at the parapets in awe as they drive into the courtyard. 

“Hmm,” Agent Smith hums, trying for nonchalant, but not quite able to quell the smile twitching at the edge of his lips. 

Mycroft sits up, startled, a blush crossing his face. He shoots John an apologetic look before brushing out his filthy shirt, donning the noble air of the unconcerned. John struggles not to laugh.

The courtyard is empty, but for two black stallions. They stand under an apple tree beside the east wall, heads pressed together like gossipy old women. Their coats are a fathomless black, like the night sky given form, and their eyes are molten gold.

John waves at them, a silly grin on his face. The larger stallion knickers in response, a sound like laughter. He knows Pooka when he sees them and they have always been fond of angels.

Agent Smith gives them a more reserved bow and Mycroft follows suit, though the wrinkle of his brow shows he isn’t quite sure what they are. 

“This castle is home to great deal of sprites and spirits, they are generally benign, but I would be careful all the same,” Agent Smith warns. He gestures for them to follow, and he takes them on a twisting route through the castle. The first floor is beautifully decorated, all rich tapestries and gleaming oak. It’s like nothing John has ever seen.

They stop in front of a tapestry displaying the Guardian of London, two white dragons roaring over a shield emblazoned with a red cross. It isn’t subtle in the least. “Hardly, inconspicuous in Ireland,” Mycroft comments drolly as Smith pulls the tapestry back to reveal a hidden door. 

“For you perhaps.” 

John peers around Mycroft’s shoulder, eyes squinted, there is a ripple of spellwork about the cloth. “It’s a guardian spell?”

“Yes,” Smith answers, tapping on seemingly random spots on the door. At the fifth tap it swings open on silent hinges. “Part of being an All Seeing Eye,” he shoots Mycroft a look, “is that spells that are designed to trick the senses don’t work on you. That tapestry was woven by a skilled sorceress, each thread was imbued with protection. Unless shown the tapestry by someone who already knows it is there, most will never see it at all.”

“I can see it too,” John points out, running his finger along the very edge of the weave. The magic tingles across his senses, almost playful.

“Yes, well, magical creatures have a unique response to such magicks, as a London angel I’m hardly surprised that the spell wouldn’t affect you. Now come along.” Agent Smith leads them down the winding staircase to the basement. Where the upstairs had been all ancient stonework, the basement is modern architecture at its finest. The corridors are reinforced steel lit by blinding fluorescent lights. 

The Irish HQ is much smaller than the main London office, but it is still filled with people. Agents move up and down the halls, summoned demons trailing their steps, though they make a wide berth of Smith, whose second shadow still lingers. 

He takes them to a room that has to be the infirmary. Small beds line the wall, most hidden by white curtains. The air is filled with the lingering scent of bleach and gauze, the universal hospital odor. 

There is a middle-aged women going between the empty beds, restocking carts at each partition. She is dressed in green scrubs under a white lab coat, a sharp contrast to the copper-red of her hair. 

“Doc,” Agent Smith calls softly. 

“S, my dear boy, it’s been ages,” the woman turns, all matronly smiles. She sweeps over to them in ground-eating strides and sweeps Smith into a hug. She presses a kiss to each cheek and then holds him at arm’s length to give him a long once-over. Her eyes are a stunning green. 

“Doc,” Agent Smith actually seems to blush. “I’ve got some new recruits.” 

“Of course you do, never here just to visit, either training or dying, never here just to say hi,” she tuts, but her smile is welcoming when she turns her focus to Mycroft and John. “Have we started to take in babes? Oh honestly S,” She clucks her tongue, pulling John and Mycroft into a hug. She is actually a bit taller than Mycroft, and this close John can tell what she really is. Her magic is subtle but powerful and all encompassing. John’s never met a godling before. 

“Come along then dears, you’ve just about drained yourself dry silly boy,” Doc fixes Mycroft with a displeased look.

She corrals them both into beds, but seems more concerned with Mycroft. “It has been an age since I’ve had a seer in residence. Just sleep child, you’ll need the rest I imagine.” She tucks the blankets around him, treating him just like the child she calls him.

John keeps a close eye on her as she treats him. She gives an air of healing, but godlings can be tricky. Doc seems rather unconcerned, however, laughing off his glare and handing him a steaming mug of cider. 

“Don’t fret so aingil, I would not harm your charge,” she tuts. 

John turns his gaze to the cider, “He’s not my…”

She tuts again, “Oh child, I know, but he is important is he not?” 

John doesn’t have to think about that one, he nods. 

She gives hims a smile that warms his heart. If she weren’t a godling of hearth and healing, John suspects she could be very dangerous indeed. 

He drinks his cider, it’s heavily spiced and heats him to the bones. He falls asleep to the sounds of a crackling fire and surrounded in matronly magic. 

He wakes some time later, in the middle of the night. Or what he assumes is the middle of the night. Doc is nowhere to be seen and there is only a single lamp on in the corner, giving the room a warm glow and throwing the shadows into sharp contrast. 

John gets out of bed, the stone floor is cold on his bare feet. He glances at Mycroft’s bed but can only see a lump of covers and a glimpse of his hair, unruly curls broken free of their usual gelled confines. 

The fire crackles merrily casting warmth on his face and bare chest. He can feel the godling's power here, protective and healing. Standing at this particular hearth should, he knows, stir up memories of family, but he has none to draw on. Instead, he feels an ache for James and Uriel, missing them terribly. 

James and an older angel had been there when he was taken to the Compound. The older angel had fled before John even learned his name. James, only two years older but already jaded, had offered him comfort. He taught him the magicks that did not come as naturally to him and helped him craft his weapons. When Uriel had come they had welcomed her with open arms and in some ways, they had become a family. 

“Hey…” Mycroft calls, then trails off, drawing John’s attention. 

His wings flinch. “Hey,” he says, turning to face Mycroft. 

“What’s wrong?” Mycroft asks and there is honest concern there. 

John walks over to the bed and perches on the edge, one wing spread out across the covers like a blanket of feathers and the other touching the floor. “How are you feeling,” he asks, avoiding the subject terribly. 

Mycroft allows the evasion, “Much better, I’ve never had such a power drain before. That lightning spell might have been a bad idea.” 

“Naw,” John shakes his head, a real smile curving his lips, “it was brilliant.” The smile disappears quickly, replaced by a contemplative look. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks again. 

“Nothing,” John looks away, “it’s stupid.” He feels like a child, never mind that he is still just a boy. 

“Well I’m not going anywhere, come on then.” 

John rolls his eyes, but his shoulders relax minutely. “Did you know I’ve been at the compound since I was 6? That’s what we called the underground base in London, The Compound.” 

Mycroft’s eyes manage an impressive range of emotions, settling somewhere between anger and worry. “They didn’t let you leave?”

“No, well they discourage it of course, but no I could have left. I had just been wandering around the streets of London for a year or two I think, I don’t remember much.” John swallows hard, staring at the fire. “I remember searching, a constant ache, but with no real direction. When MI6 found me they didn’t give me much of choice, but honestly I’m surprised someone worse didn’t whisk me away first.” He sighs. “Every time I thought about leaving I’d get a horrible ache in my chest that I needed to be there, so I stayed.” 

“So why go with me?” Mycroft asks, curious. 

John finally looks at him, a wry grin about his lips. “I was getting ready to leave the Compound anyways, feeling or no, and then you walk in and it’s like I was bowled over. I could hear the bells. I knew you were important, that some day you’ll lead me to my One just like MI6 led me to you.” 

“I couldn’t imagine,” Mycroft says looking down at the duvet. 

John laughs, and he knows it sounds bitter, “Sometimes I can’t either, but it’s important. If nothing else I know that.”

“And it’s enough?” 

“It has to be.” 

****

The next morning, Doc fusses over them some more, but declares that their magicks have been restored. John feels refreshed and can feel the comforting strength of Mycroft’s power returned to him, one of the benefits of enjoying a godling’s hospitality. 

Agent Smith meets them as they are released, not looking much changed, but for his second shadow which has been drawn back into its pocket dimension. “Come along then boys, let’s see if we can get you properly equipped for a real mission.” He leads them even further underground, to a bunker with steel reinforced walls and protection spells lasered into the structure. 

There is a large steel table in the middle of the room, piled high with a mess of papers and strange magical items. There is a man bent over the chaos, he’s tall and gangly like a baby giraffe. 

Agent Smith clears his throat. 

Though the sound is quiet, the man practically leaps into the air, spinning about. “Oh Agent, eh, yes, hello,” he clears his throat, pushing up his spectacles in a practiced gesture. He has a young face, made even younger by his wide eyes which give him a perpetual deer in the headlights look. 

“Here for your supplies then?” He asks, stepping around the table. 

His movement shows one the objects he had been studying. “That’s mine!” Mycroft says, startling John. He strides over to the table and runs his hand over an leather satchel, covered in hand-tooled runes. 

“I didn’t open it,” the man runs his hand through his already messy black hair. He’s pale enough to be practically translucent his veins running like blue marks beneath his skin. 

“You wouldn’t be able to,” Mycroft growls, securing the bag over his shoulders. He’s clearly protective of the thing, John wonders why.

“Yes quite clever actually, I’ve never seen an arithmancy variation of a bloodline spell,” the man steps forward, his nerves gone in the face of his curiosity. 

“Q, please,” Agent Smith interrupts, tilting his head towards the table with a ‘get on with it’ look. 

“Ah, yes of course,” Q presses his spectacles up - though they hadn’t slipped - and clears his throat like he’s preparing for a grand speech. “I’ve got just the thing,” he says, darting a longing look at the satchel before going back to the table and pulling a few objects onto the top of the mess. 

Mycroft takes a step closer to get a better look, John is right at his side, eyes wide and curious. The first object that draws his attention is a simple black brolly, the handle is simple polished wood. 

“Ahh this is one of my favorites, go ahead then pick it up.” 

Mycroft can’t quite hide his sceptical look, but picks up the brolly. He narrows his eyes, observing the object with senses beyond simple sight. “It stores magic.”

John takes a closer look at it then. The wood reeks of old magic and he can tell there is something off about the fabric, but isn’t sure what.

“Yes,” Q grins, “The wood is actually from an ancient ash tree, it’s a natural conduit. The fabric is woven with pooka fur, freely given. It will offer some protection against magical attacks, and of course,” Q winks, “keep you dry.” 

He studies the mechanism along the wooden handle, and with a flick of his wrist, Mycroft opens the brolly. It opens with ease, the simple black fabric and polished handle making it look inconspicuous. He flicks he wrist again and the brolly clicks closed. “I can store my magic in the wood, and then call on it when I am depleted. How much can it store?”

John is impressed, this was the spy business he had expected from the get go. 

Q avoids looking at Mycroft directly, a flush of color spreading across his cheeks. “I...ah...I’m not sure. I haven’t reached its limits yet, but I know the wood will give a warning if you store too much.” He fusses with the second object, a small black pouch with a drawstring. He tilts the bag on it’s side and a collection of different stones tumble out. 

John reaches for them instantly, drawn to the pure white glow shimmering off them. “What are these,” he asks, picking up a flat brown stone with white and black striations running through it. It burns against his palm, but it is a pleasant heat.

“These,” Q gestures grandly with his hand, “are some of the purest healing stones in our collection.” 

John puts down the stone and picks up a rough, rectangular stone that is a vibrant blue with sparks of green. Each feels a little different, the stones have...personality. “Do they store magic too?”

“Not exactly,” Q points at the stone in John’s hand, “that is Azurite, ‘stone of the heavens’ it will help filter your magic so you can use it for healing. Angels have extraordinary healing abilities, but their magic is so pure it actually causes harm to all but their One. With one of these stones, however, the magic can be filtered and used safely. Each of these stones is a healing stone, but are each a little different. They will all respond uniquely based on your own magic so I`m afraid I can’t give you much of a guide.” 

John is well aware of the damage his healing magic can cause, these stones are a good work around. “No that’s fine,” John shoots Mycroft a grin, “It’ll be nice to be able to heal people.” 

“That is rather useful,” Mycroft agrees, “Healing spells have never been my forte.” 

“This one is a bit more personal,” Q says softly, pulling an old fashioned pocket watch from the table. The casing looks gold and is covered in strange markings. 

When Q hands it to Mycroft, he turns it curiously in his hands. A closer look shows the metal is etched with chemical equations. “This is an alchemist’s.”

Q nods, grinning. “Not just any alchemist, your father’s.”

Mycroft doesn’t rear back, but John can tell he wants to. He looks like he’s just been slapped. “My father’s?” 

Agent Smith steps forward. “Your father consulted with us on multiple projects. He was one of the greatest alchemists of his time. He left this watch behind with the intention that it would one day go to his son. It is imbued with a powerful protection spell. I imagine it has more secrets, but whatever they are your father took them with him to the grave.”

Mycroft presses the top of the watch and it opens with a soft click. John leans over his shoulder, probably rudely, but he’s curious. The watch face is beautiful. Instead of numbers, the face was left blank so as not to obscure the interlocking gears that could be seen beneath. The watch hands are delicate silver arrows, vibrant against the gold and bronze inner workings.

He takes in a shuddering breath when he notices the picture. On the inside of the closure, apparently burned into the metal, is an image of a young boy and an older gentlemen, their resemblance obvious even in the simple etching. The little boy is grinning with his arms slung around his father’s shoulders. John steps back feeling he saw something he shouldn’t

Mycroft flicks the watch closed and shoves it in his pocket. “Ehm,” he clears his throat, “thank you.”

“That is everything for now, all the other essentials; tickets, mission, and funds will come from Agent Smith or Agent Moneypenny,” Q says, ineffectively pulling the mess of papers on his desk into a pile.

“Mission?” John asks, not keeping the anger from his tone. “I thought we were training for a couple of months.” 

“That had been the plan,” Agent Smith scowls, “However the Guardian Spirit of Boston is now officially missing.”

Mycroft's Pocketwatch by [Tartha](http://timephilosopher.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a hard time writing Mycroft in this chapter, he isn't the same man from the show, not yet anyways, he's just 20 years old here and still figuring his way in the world, all while trying to protect his little brother and this strange new angel.
> 
> I just added some new art of Young Mycroft and Mycroft's Pocketwatch done by the amazing Tartha. They definitely made my day, it was a wonderful surprise.


	7. The Sculptor’s Guild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade and Sherlock catch a new case and not everything is how it seems.

# Chapter Seven: The Sculptor’s Guild

For the first time in ages, Lestrade wakes before his alarm goes off. Normally he would roll over and go back to sleep, but he’s wide awake and there's a teen mage on his sofa. He wanders around the screen separating his bed from the rest of the flat to find Sherlock hasn’t much moved. He’s still on his back, body straight out and fingers pressed to his lips.

Lestrade has seen enough trances to recognize the signs. He looks heavenward and wonders why in the world he decided to let a kid he barely knows crash on his couch. He feels a sharp tug beneath his breastbone, ah right, that’s why. 

With a sigh, he heads to the loo, might as well get ready. By the time he’s done - showered, shaved, and wearing a relatively clean suit - Sherlock is awake and snooping through his cabinets. 

“If you just stayed the night to rob me, you picked the wrong flat,” Lestrade comments dryly. 

Sherlock doesn’t even have the decency to appear startled. He gives a derisive chuckle. “I assure you, I knew that before we arrived.”

“Oh yes of course,” Lestrade rolls his eyes. He’s gonna need coffee for this. The coffee maker hasn’t been used in a while, but he has filters and grounds, and that is all that matters. “What are you searching for then? If you’re trying to steal my cuffs, you are way too young for that sort of business.” 

“What?” Sherlock’s face scrunches up into innocent confusion, actually looking his age before it smooths into cool disdain. “No, I’m looking for clues into what your discipline is. Magi in the MET have to be class 5 or higher and to make detective as quickly as you did, at least a class 7.” 

Lestrade takes a deep breath of the freshly brewing coffee, it’s rather soothing. “And it didn’t cross your mind to just ask?” 

The look Sherlock shoots him would flay a lesser being. “Of course not,” he baulks, “what would be the fun in asking?” 

Lestrade busies himself trying to find sugar. “Yes, obviously, silly me. Asking would just be the height of madness. Well you aren’t going to find the answer looking through my junk drawer. Do you want toast?” 

Sherlock holds up a stack of delivery menus with a grimace. “Perhaps not,” he agrees and walks past Lestrade to grab a mug with the unerring accuracy of someone who has long since searched and catalogued the cabinets. 

“Oh hell no,” Lestrade steps protectively in front of the coffee pot. 

“You made enough for an army. I don’t want toast, but I do want coffee,” Sherlock straightens to his full height, which is impressive for a fourteen year old. 

“You have enough energy for ten people, I’m not adding caffeine on top of that.”

“It is a mild stimulant at best, and unlikely to cause hyperactivity.” 

Lestrade’s attempts to guard the coffee are halted by the buzzing of his mobile. “Fine, try not to set anything on fire,” he huffs, leaving the kitchen. He opens his phone, there’s a message from Sally. “Ah damn.”

“The Case?” Sherlock materializes at his shoulder. 

“Christ!” Lestrade jumps, “Wear a bell or something.” He holds up his phone, “They identified the body. One Carl Powers, age 18, a class 7 Summoner and second year student at the Summoner’s College.”

Sherlock practically claws over his shoulder to snatch the phone. “They closed the case! They ruled it an accident!” 

Lestrade yanks his phone back. “A class 7 attempting a class 10 summoning, it is the natural assumption.” 

If Sherlock was less posh, he’d be spitting. “Don’t be an idiot. Why that spell? Why that mixture? What made him step past the safety circle? But no, it’s too much effort to exercise your atrophied brains, let’s just call it an accident and be done.” 

“The evidence supports the ruling, Sherlock. I can’t fight this without evidence to the contrary, it’s above my station,” Lestrade sighs. 

“So that’s it then, you just roll over and show your belly.” 

Lestrade holds up his phone, bright with a new message. “We have to wait, have to find new evidence, but until then there are more murders to solve.”

Sherlock stomps to the door, flicking his fingers to call his cloak. It swirls around his shoulders in a flurry. “Fine,” he snarls, “let’s see this new body.”  
***

The body stinks. This is hardly grand news, most dead bodies do, but this one takes the cake. Stewing in the Thames for at least a day and sitting under a pier with rotting fish had not done this guy any favours. 

“Ugg, I hate the floaters,” Lestrade grimaces. 

Sherlock seems to have no such compunction. He kneels next to the body, his cloak hovering just over the mud. He leaps around it, checking hands, feet, and clothes with a magnifying glyph. “Please Detective,” Sherlock gestures, “Be my guest.” Stepping back so Lestrade can have the look he should have had first. 

He kneels down, revisiting the urge to dry heave, that is a smell you never get used to. The motions for a diagnostic spell are second nature to him now, he draws in the air above the body causing the hands, forearms, and most of the face to shimmer. “Hmm magic residue consistent with defensive wounds and suffocation.” 

He leans closer, checking the bruising pattern around the mouth. The victim is a middle-aged gentlemen who, despite bloating from the river, was probably overweight. His clothes are waterlogged and fish nibbled, but Lestrade recognizes cheap polyester suit when he sees it, he has enough in his own closet. 

He stands, stripping off his gloves with a snap. “It had to be something quite large to cover a man’s face with one hand and suffocate him.” 

“Something like a Golem,” Sherlock comments at his side. 

“A Golem,” Lestrade mulls it over. “Yes, that would be possible, but a sculpt that large would take a class 9 at least. That seems like a lot of effort to kill someone, we don’t have an ID yet though, maybe he was important.” 

“Doubtful,” Sherlock sniffs, “look at the clothes. Judging by the callouses he was an office worker, spent a lot of time with books based on the numerous paper cuts, and just got off a lengthy flight from the swelling in his calves and ankles.” 

Lestrade gives him a look, “Okay the first two make sense, but he was in the water for a day, of course there is swelling. What makes you think he was on a flight?”

“Different sort of swelling, I did an experiment recently on how the body retains water in various situations. It in…”

Lestrade holds a hand up to halt him before he gets going. “Alright, alright, I believe you. Why a Golem then? More than just a construct could have caused that bruising pattern.” 

Sherlock grins. “But how many of those things would leave gravel burn on his hands.” 

Lestrade goes back to the body and turns over a hand. There are distinctive scratches along the palm and forearm that one gets from either falling on concrete or fending off a Golem. “Son of a bitch,” he laughs, shaking his head at not checking that himself. “Looks like we’re taking a trip to the Sculptor’s Guild.”

***

Sculptors are an off branch of enchanters with an added earth elemental gift. Lestrade knew a few in college, and has alway found them to be the artsy sorts, the dreamers. They aren’t generally known for murderous intentions, but he knows how little stock can be put in stereotypes. 

The Sculptor’s Guild is in Shoreditch, nestled in a renovated theater house. There’s no real sign, just the emblem of the crossed hammer and chisel that has represented the Sculptors for millennia. 

Sherlock marches right up to the door, and pushes his way in without hesitation. 

Lestrade, already used to this sort of behavior, follows. The entrance is a large room filled with dusty sunlight. There is a set of intricate stairs leading to the 2nd floor and another down to the basement. The air is heavy with the scent of dust and dry clay. 

“May I help you?” comes a wavy voice to their right. The man is tall and reed thin, with a mess of long brown hair. Judging by how wide his pupils are and the slowness of his blinks, Lestrade suspects he’s quite high, hemlock most likely. 

“Detective Lestrade and this is my… associate Sherlock Holmes,” he holds up his badge before tucking it back in his pocket. “We’d like to look around and ask some questions if that’s alright?”

The man stretches out his hand, fingers coated in dry clay and ink. “Jeff. It’s a pleasure to meet you detective. Look as much as you want,” the man speaks like every word is a long sigh. 

“Ah thanks,” Lestrade shakes the offered hand and winds up trapped in an awkwardly long grasp. 

“Yes, yes, pleasantries and all that. The sculpting rooms are downstairs,” Sherlock interrupts. 

“Right, yes,” Lestrade manages to extract his hand. “Thank you for your cooperation, sir.” 

The downstairs is only a half basement, with the back wall being above ground. It smells even more of clay, with every available surface having collected a fine sheen of dust. There are two women working on pottery wheels, one with an impressive collection of mugs at her side. The other is making spindly pots like something out of a Tim Burton film, one of the things keeps trying to wander off its perch. The woman must be used to it, though, because she doesn’t need to look up to push it back into place. 

There is a long table set on the right of the room, in front of a series of drying shelves. There is an older gentleman putting the finishing touches on a large vase covered in dancing girls, and a person of indeterminate gender putting together a set of chubby clay birds that seem to be trying to tweet, but aren’t making any noise. No one so much as spares them a glance. 

Lestrade clears his throat. The man looks up for an instant, but one of the dancers kicks him, he curses and goes back to his piece. It’s one of the women at the wheel that finally acknowledges them. She turns to them with a scrunched brow, wrinkling the streak of red clay across her cheek. “Can I help you? I didn’t think we were getting any new students in.” 

He fishes his badge back out. “Detective Lestrade from the MET, I was hoping to ask you some questions. It appears we have a Golem on the loose.” 

“A Golem?” she laughs, standing and wiping her hands ineffectively on her clay covered apron. “We build small constructs here,” she gestures at the man fighting with his vase. “The piece Bill here is working on is about as big as we get.” 

“You’re a teacher here,” Sherlock butts in. 

The lady gives him a curious once-over. Lestrade knows that Sherlock looks even younger than he is, but the kid has the otherworldly look of a mythos. He can tell from her expression that she comes to same conclusion and dismisses the idea that he could be a human child. “Yes, I teach wheel throwing and some hand building. Shelly Behling. I’ve been here, god, 14 years give or take.” 

Sherlock gives her that eerie glance, the one that made Lestrade realize he was more than a Summoner. “Your a class 8 sculptor, you have students more powerful than you, but your skill as an artisan makes up for your power levels. The person we’re looking for would be class 10 or higher and an equally impressive artisan.” 

Shelly looks stunned, “Ah yes, class 8.” She moves to the sink to wash off her hands. “We have a few class 10s and one 11, but I’m telling you, we don’t have the facilities for Golem sculpting.” 

“Hmm,” Sherlock looks around the room, checking the creations on the drying racks and wandering into a backroom filled with kilns. He’s muttering something under his breath when he sweeps past Lestrade and wanders back out to the hall. 

“Sorry about him,” Lestrade sighs, watching him leave. 

Shelly shrugs, unconcerned. Lestrade imagines she probably deals with a lot of interesting characters. “Do any of those students have home studios?” 

“Oh, Dean and Sara do, and so does Jeff, you probably met him upstairs. None of the others do though, not that I know of,” Shelly grabs a crinkled stack of papers from a drawer. “Here’s the contact list.” 

He checks it over, the list has name, class, mobile number, and address. Apparently Hemlock-high Jeff is a class 10. “This will be quite helpful thank you.” 

“Keep it,” Shelly waves him off, “I have it saved on the computer. Good luck.” 

He checks over the rest of the basement before heading back upstairs. There are two more sculpting rooms and a good sized brick kiln, but he doesn’t see any of the equipment needed to produce a golem the size that killed their victim. 

Sherlock isn’t in the basement, and when he checks the main floor and the 2nd story, he doesn’t find him there either. His heart is pounding by the time he gets to the car and Sherlock isn’t there. He checks his phone, hoping for a message, and finds his wallet missing. “Fuck,” he snarls, of course he ran off on his own, couldn’t wait 5 minutes for Lestrade to finish asking questions. 

He panics for about 10 seconds before remembering that his badge is in his wallet and all police issued badges contain a powerful tracking charm. “Oh thank god,” he takes a deep breath and activates the spell. 

***

Sherlock, the quick little bugger, is slogging through the dank tunnels of the London Underground when Lestrade tracks him down. He grabs him by the shoulder, which is stupid because the cloak flares up, sending a jolt up his arm. 

“Ah shite,” he curses shaking out his hand. “You stole my wallet!” 

“Borrowed it,” Sherlock drawls holding it out. 

Lestrade snatches it back with a glare. “You couldn’t have waited for me to finish my questions?” He checks his wallet, his badge and ID are still there but, “Hey, I had 30 quid in here.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, completely unconcerned. “I needed it.” 

“For what?” 

Sherlock points down one of the tunnels, it looks like any of the others; dark, smelly, and dripping with questionable fluids. “I paid off a few homeless. The Golem isn’t staying with it’s master and something that large isn’t going to be wandering out in the open or you would have heard about it. One of the people I questioned said they saw the Golem down here a few hours ago. I found prints in the mud down that tunnel that confirms her story. It hasn’t gotten far.” 

Vacillating between being impressed and furious, Lestrade settles for something in the middle. “I promised your brother I would keep you safe. That was good work, but you could have waited. Don’t make a liar out of me.” 

Sherlock tsks, looking away, but he doesn’t argue. “The tracks go this way,” he mutters, pointing down another tunnel. 

“Alright then,” Lestrade reaches into his pocket and pulls out his athame. The blade is longer than most ceremonial blades, but his weapon has never really been for ceremony. “Let’s investigate shall we.” 

They enter the tunnel side by side, nothing but a flickering mage lamp to light the way. The sides of the tunnel are lined with rubbish, hints of shelters long abandoned. There is no noise that alerts him, but between one moment and the next Lestrade feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He spins around, knife at the ready.

The Golem is there, a hulking thing three meters high and near as wide. Its head is flat and square with empty holes for eyes. Its flat line of a mouth is open, but no sound comes out. It raises one arm, 4-fingered hand splayed to swat them like bugs.

He doesn’t hesitate, grabbing Sherlock around the waist, Lestrade leaps back. He flings a barrier spell as he goes, sending golden light throughout the tunnel. 

The Golem’s hand slams into it, the sounds reverberating down the tunnels as the spell catches then shatters. 

Sherlock is breathing hard, eyes wide and frightened, but Lestrade has to give the kid credit, that doesn’t stop him. He draws a sigil in the air, casting blue light as his shield variation takes hold. Unlike Lestrade’s, this shield sticks to the walls, casting a giant web. 

“Golems are only as strong as their construct, they can be destroyed with an enchanted weapon,” Lestrade says shifting the grip on his blade. 

“I know that,” Sherlock snarls, “a dissipate spell can weaken it, will your little knife be enough.” 

Lestrade huffs, but winces when the creature slams into the web, the shield giving a horrible whine. “My weapon is just fine thank you, cast the spell.” 

Sherlock bites his lip, eyes darting from side to side as he recalls the structure. Lestrade doesn’t know that one off hand, but judging by Sherlock’s gestures, it’s a complicated spell. 

The shield cracks, dispelling in a shimmer of blue light. Lestrade rushes forward, if Sherlock moves then he’ll have to restart the spell. He dodges under an arm, close enough to shift his hair. The stab is low in what would be the gut, the athame only going in halfway, the clay making up the creature is stronger than he expected. 

“Sherlock,” he calls, yanking his knife free. “Hurry,” he dodges another flailing arm. Luckily Golems aren’t known for being clever. 

“Shut up,” Sherlock snarls back. Blue light is flickering around him, the spell beginning to form. 

Lestrade takes a glancing blow, the force of it tearing a slice down his cheek. It burns, blood welling and dripping down his face, he can taste copper on his lips. He throws himself at the side of tunnel, just missing another blow. A quick shield spell just stops a fist from splattering him across the wall. 

“Move,” Sherlock shouts. 

He jumps aside, dropping to the ground as the spell roars overhead. It slams into the Golem, rocking the tunnel. Lestrade’s lucky he closed his eyes when he dropped or he’s pretty sure he’d be blind. As it is, bright lights flicker across his vision. He shakes his head, there’s no time for that. 

The Golem is melting, the hard edges of its form giving way to the softened clay, but the spell is only temporary. Lestrade rushes forward, slipping past a much slower arm. He has to jump to reach what would be the heart. The blade slips through the clay with ease this time, striking true. 

The Golem’s mouth opens in a soundless cry as it dissolves, the clay falling off in clumps, mixing with the muck below until there is only a mess of wet clay. 

“Good job,” Lestrade wheezes. He takes a couple of centering breaths before cleaning his blade on his already ruined trousers. 

“Yes ahh,” Sherlock steps carefully over to the pile, avoiding the worst of the mess. “That was good.” He casts a spell Lestrade doesn’t recognize, but the clay bubbles, rising before emitting three objects with a burp. 

“Are those the focus?” Lestrade asks. 

“Yes, rather unusual ones,” Sherlock comments, picking up what looks like a ticket stub. 

Lestrade steps closer to get a better look. The ticket is a stub for the National Antiquities Museum. The other objects are a teacup, the crack on the side most likely from when Lestrade stabbed it, and a lucky cat. He stares at the white cat statue - paw still rocking - he’s seen tons of them in Chinatown. “You’re right,” he hums, “these are unusual.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a hell of a time doing the drawing for this chapter, I was looking up references and doing thumbnails for ages to figure out a configuration I liked. I'm super pleased with the final product, even if it did just about kill my microns.


	8. The Black Lotus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds the Sculptor and learns a lesson.

# Chapter Eight: The Black Lotus

They go to the National Antiquities Museum after a quick stop over at the flat for Lestrade to shower and change. Sherlock put up a token protest, but the man had basically rolled in sewage, there is only so much a cleansing spell can accomplish.

Sherlock has been to the museum only once, four years earlier. They had taken a family trip into London, and Mycroft had volunteered to show Sherlock around since neither of them had been much interested in shopping. When they had stopped outside the museum, Sherlock had complained, having little interest in antiquities, until Mycroft had showed him the special exhibit on pirates through history. He shoves the memory away, there is a case on, no time for sentiment. 

They wander the museum, Lestrade stopping employees and asking them mundane questions. Sherlock gives each of them a look, but they are all dull and useless. He doesn’t find anything of interest until reaching the Chinese wing. There is a young women there doing a tea demonstration. A small group of people have gathered around her to watch. 

Sherlock finds a spot a few meters away, standing just right to watch her hands. He doesn’t need to hear her. She moves smoothly, every action carefully measured. When the demonstration is over, the people scatter. 

He approaches slowly, watching the care in which she handles the set. She has small, delicate hands, but Sherlock can see the strength in them in the way she moves. “A strange place to work for a sculptor,” Sherlock comments, stepping up to the display. 

The woman startles, the cup slipping before she catches it and puts it down. “Who are you?” she asks, fixing him with a glare. There is magic building behind her gaze. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” he grins, “I work with the police.” 

She gives him a sharp look, up and down, her brow quirks doubtfully. 

Sherlock huffs, lifting his chin, “Appearances can be deceiving.” His coat collar gives a flicker, revealing the eye in a lazy blink. 

Her brow rises to her hair line. “I suppose so.” She offers her hand, “Soo Lin Yao.” 

Sherlock takes her hand in a quick shake, all he needs to feel the callouses along her thumb and pointer fingers, and how dry her hands are despite the lingering scent of lotion. “Though I have to admit, you don’t strike me as the sort to unleash a Golem on London.” 

“As you say Mr. Holmes,” Her lips a pursed line, “Appearances are deceiving.” 

Sherlock may not have his brother’s gift for energy perception, but he can shift his gaze easily enough. Soo Lin has an aura of rolling greens and browns, a natural earth sorcerer, but there is a smudge of black near her feet. “No, I rather think you are being blackmailed.” 

“Sherlock! What the hell,” Lestrade growls, breaking through their bubble with his approach. “You can’t just wander off like that. We are hunting for…” he trails off, finally noticing Soo Lin. 

“I’m not a recalcitrant child,” Sherlock snarls, ignoring Lestrade’s snort of amusement. “I found our sculptor.” 

Lestrade looks at Soo Lin, to Sherlock, and back to Soo Lin. “Really?” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes really, but this is even deeper than I thought. It’s a smuggling ring.” 

Soo Lin’s jaw drops, eyes wide. “How?” 

“I told you,” Sherlock straightens his collar, “I work for the police.” 

Lestrade doesn’t even protest, he just holds up his badge with the distinctive symbol of the MET. “We’re going to need you to come in for questioning Miss.” 

Soo Lin’s eyes dart about the room before she slumps with a great rush of breath. “Alright,” she sighs, “let’s go.” 

“It is my brother,” Soo Lin says from the backseat when they have settled into the car. “That is how they are blackmailing me.” 

Lestrade glances at the rear view mirror and then Sherlock, but doesn’t comment.

Sherlock spins in his chair so he can get a better look at her. “Younger brother? They have him? They who?”

“They have his body and his soul. The General always had a gift for necromancy, for control,” she hisses, teeth clenched as if in pain. 

“Who are they Soo Lin?” 

“I can’t,” she pants, tears welling. 

“Enough,” Lestrade interrupts. “You’ve clearly been compelled. We can talk at the station, we have a room that will keep you safe.” 

Soo Lin shakes her head, “There is no such thing.” 

“Just one word, who?” Sherlock leans forward. “Can you write it down?”

Lestrade yanks him back, sitting him forward in the chair. “Enough,” he warns, “that’s enough.”

Sherlock glares at him, tempted to throw a stinging spell if the man wasn’t driving the car. Lestrade doesn’t look at him, instead fixing his eyes on the road, jaw clenching. Sherlock decides to let it go, for now. 

They take Soo Lin straight to the interrogation rooms, the magic dampening ones specific to the MET. She looks pale and drawn, fine tremors working up her arms. Sherlock can sense spellwork, but the magic dampeners dull his senses, dragging like claws across his skin.

Lestrade forces him to sit in a chair in the hall like some errant pup. Sherlock fumes over the indignity, trying to figure out how to sneak into the observation room. He could unlock the door even without magic, but any sprite he summons to enact invisibility would be dispelled the moment he steps through the door. If it was just Lestrade he is certain he could wriggle his way in, but Donovan is guarding the room. 

Sherlock is tapping his fingers on his knee and contemplating if he could design a watcher rune variation to see through walls, when he hears the yelling. He jumps up, digging for his lock picks, but the door is already flying open. 

“We need a healer,” Lestrade is shouting, pulling Soo Lin from the room. She’s gone pale, her veins standing out in jagged black lines like ink bleeding through paper. 

Sherlock rushes forward, a healing spell already on his tongue. She’s convulsing, eyes rolling into her head. Lestrade goes to the ground with her, putting her on her side. Sherlock falls to his knees before them, the spell dying on his lips. 

Police are filling the hall, the strongest healers racing to their aid, but it is too late. The shaking has stopped. Soo Lin is dead. 

***

The morgue is cold. This is a stupid deduction, no, a stupid observation, but still the thought runs through Sherlock’s head. He’s shivering, though his coat is curled tightly around him. When the door opens, he shoves his hands in his pockets, he doesn’t want Lestrade to see them shaking. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Lestrade says flatly. 

“I need to be,” Sherlock shoves his hands deeper, trying to find warmth in the endless depths of his pockets. “She died because we brought her in. I brought her in.” 

The lights overhead flicker and Sherlock feels a surge of magic simmer across the room. He gasps, and the power is abruptly cut. “You did no such thing,” Lestrade steps forward, looming over Sherlock, and yet his presence is not threatening. “You helped with an investigation that I should have never let you in on. You are a boy, a child, and you should not have seen that.” Lestrade sighs, deep and weary, “You need to go back to the flat.” 

“I will not,” Sherlock snaps. “She died, and I…” he clenches his fist. “I couldn’t help then, but I can do this. I’m good at it.”

“I don’t want you involved in this.”

“I already am!” Sherlock takes a step forward, his own magic surging, raw power drawn by emotion.

“Um, am I interrupting?”

Sherlock’s power cuts like a switch. He turns to the voice. A young woman is standing in the entrance to the morgue. She’s wearing a doctor’s coat over scrubs, nitrile gloves tucked in her pockets. 

“Molly,” Lestrade greets, posture softening. 

“You’re the pathologist,” Sherlock says, and now he’s stating the obvious. 

“Err yes,” She glances between them, “Should he be in here?”

Lestrade stays silent for a long time, but finally he sighs. He claps Sherlock on the shoulder, flinching when the collar moves, but the coat doesn’t sting him. “You can’t get emotional about this. The cases, they can’t be... personal.” 

“You’re upset about this too. I know you are.” 

Lestrade nods, “I am, but I can’t let my anger rule how I approach this. It won’t help her and it won’t help solve this case.” 

Sherlock swallows, he feels slapped. “Caring isn’t an advantage.” He thinks of Mycroft.

“No,” Lestrade cuts through his thoughts, “Caring is an advantage, we just can’t let it rule our actions.” 

Sherlock laughs, a bitter sound. “You’re cleverer than you look Detective.” 

Lestrade gives his shoulder a squeeze. “Ta,” he huffs, “Come on then.” He steers him over to the tables. There are two of them, bodies covered by sheets, side by side. Molly stands in the middle, hands clasped nervously, but she doesn’t comment on their exchange. 

She pulls back the sheets for them. Bodies in the morgue are different than he expected, oddly clean, the skin pale and rigid. 

Molly steps up to the man first, the bloated body from this morning. “We identified him as Brian Lukis, a travel Journalist, and I looked into what you asked Greg, he did just get back from China last week.” Molly’s nervous nature falls away as she works.

“That would support the smuggler theory,” Lestrade comments. “Traveling back and forth for work.” 

Sherlock nods, only half listening, his attention is on Soo Lin. 

Molly steps to her table, arms curled around her clipboard like a shield. “Preliminary results show she died of poison.” 

“You think it was something else?” Sherlock asks. 

Molly bites her lip and steps to the bottom of the table. There is a tag tied to Soo Lin’s toe, her information written in doctor’s scrawl. “When I was doing my initial review I noticed this.” She pulls the untagged foot back so the heel is displayed. 

The black lines Sherlock had noticed in the station lead down to the heel, crafting a spider web of lines down to a black mark, a stylized flower. Sherlock reaches out. The mark reacts, dark sparks leaping from it and sting his finger.

“Gah,” he pulls back, flicking his fingers to disperse the effect.

“You okay?” Lestrade appears at his shoulder, shield already brewing in his palm. 

“Fine,” Sherlock scowls, “Just a warning. It’s a binding rune.” 

“Shite,” Lestrade leans down to get a closer look, careful to stay out of range. “Tattooed into the skin, that’s why the dampeners didn’t work. They are designed not to affect these kind of marks. People get healing runes tattooed all the time, we couldn’t risk dampened that kind of magic in case we stopped someone’s heart.” 

“She started to talk and they killed her for it, poison spell built into the mark.” 

“She wasn’t making much sense, started talking about the Lotus and a...Who...Wu, something like that,” Lestrade tsks, frustrated. 

“A Wu,” Sherlock spins to face him. “A Wu is the name for Chinese Magi, they are Shaman that use a mixture of elemental and enchanting magicks. This sort of mark work would be a specialty of theirs, and Soo Lin mentioned a Necromancer, of course. They control their foot soldiers through the mark, a mix of threat and control to get them to do what they want.” 

“But,” Lestrade’s brow furrows, “if they can kill through the mark, why send a Golem after Lukis?” 

“To test Soo Lin. She’s been working at the museum for the last two years, she must have tried to run and they caught her, blackmailing her with her brother. They tested her by having her build the Golem. She wasn’t the one controlling it, one of the focus belonged to the other Wu, the General,” Sherlock lets the information spill out of him, he can feel his magic sparking along with it, deductions aided by a seer’s vision. 

He knows what he needs to do, clear as day. Sherlock reaches out, fingers sparking with power. The mark fights, but he’s expecting it, redirecting the attack with a flick. The flower pulls from the skin like yanking a plaster, leaving behind a dark smudge. 

Lestrade grabs his wrist when the mark is almost to his palm. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like,” he snaps, “I’m attaching the mark. It’s still drawing power from the castor, I can use it to track them.” 

“This mark kills people, and we know it has at least a compelling charm and some control built into the rune work.” Lestrade tightens his grip. It isn’t painful, but it draws Sherlock’s attention. “We just talked about this.” 

“It’s not,” Sherlock shakes his head, “I’m not being emotional. This is the fastest way to find the killer and I am weighing the odds. The mark only contains one dose of poison and the Wu won’t be able to control anyone of a stronger class.” 

“And you assume they can’t possibly be stronger than you?” Lestrade quirks a brow. 

“I highly doubt it, I’m class 12.” 

Lestrade whistles, low and impressed, but not surprised. “Class 12 might be the highest rank, but they are not so rare that this Wu couldn’t be one, and we both know that power levels are the most variable in 12.” 

“12 is just where the scale stops recording, I know,” Sherlock looks down at the mark, still floating in the air. “I can do this, runes are my speciality. I can change it if it makes you feel better, but we’ll have to move quickly, the castor will feel it.” 

Lestrade gives him another of those searching looks. He releases his wrist and steps back. “Alright, be careful.” 

Sherlock doesn’t deign that with an answer. He pulls the mark to him, twisting it into a less dangerous shape. It burns into his palm, the skin blistering as it sinks into place. Sherlock winces, fingers spasming. 

“Are you okay?” Lestrade reaches out, hand already glowing to tear the mark off of him. 

Sherlock holds him off with a shake of his head. “Yes, I’m fine, and even better, I know where we need to go.”


	9. New York, New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and John run into some interesting characters on their hunt for the Guardian of New York.

# Chapter Nine: New York, New York

The flight from Heathrow to JFK is about 8 hours. They fly first class, with the seats in front of them suspiciously empty and the seats behind them occupied only by Agent Smith, who is picking up a connection in JFK to Boston.

John and Mycroft sit huddled together over the tray between their seats, the mission files laid out for review. “I just don’t understand how a guardian just disappears,” John sighs, pulling one of the pages filled with pictures towards him. The pictures are all of various statues around Boston, taken in places the statues definitely shouldn’t be. 

“It took them some time to realize he was missing, Boston’s spirit ‘jumps’ from statue to statue, sometimes being helpful and sometimes playing tricks. When the city mages realized they hadn’t seen him in awhile they scryed for him and turned up nothing. He’s just gone.” Mycroft pulls out another picture, this one blurry, a long shadow in murky water. He taps the shadow, “that is why we are going to New York. The closest, and most powerful Guardian in the area is undoubtedly the Hudson River, Guardian of New York City.” 

John nods, shuffling the pictures around. “They're all shadows or really blurry.”

“Unfortunately,” Mycroft sighs, “The Hudson River is notoriously hard to find and very unhelpful.” 

“That’s why we have to go, huh?” 

“Yes, hopefully I will get a lock on him once we get into the city, and even the most temperamental Guardians tend to like angels.”

The intercom buzzes, the Captain telling them they are about to land. Not long after, the plane comes to a stuttering halt. Mycroft is grateful they get off first, his legs are stiff and he has zero interest in fighting in the usual mad dash to get off the plane. 

Agent Smith goes his own direction, heading for his connecting flight to Boston. He doesn’t give them so much as a backwards glance. Mycroft doesn’t know if his feigned disinterest is because he trusts them to accomplish the mission without further input, or he just doesn’t want to reveal their connection. Mycroft rather suspects it is the latter. 

The airport is a madhouse, with Christmas only two weeks away it is even busier than normal. John glues himself to Mycroft’s side, without actually touching him. He can only imagine how the young angel is feeling, he might have grown up in London, but he spent the majority of his life underground, seeing only his fellow angels and the occasional agent. 

Even Mycroft is feeling the overwhelming press of so many people. He had trained himself to be used to flow of London’s magic, but New York has it’s own manic presence and in an international airport his senses are assaulted by magicks from all over the planet. He ends up having to concentrate his focus on John, whose magic is gentle and purifying and doesn’t flare his seer abilities. 

They both hurry to secure their bags and acquire transport to their hotel in Manhattan. Mycroft had thought about renting a car, he does have a license, but he is hardly practiced and is well aware that New York City is no place for a driving novice. Judging by the harrowing journey of their taxi, he made the right decision. 

John gapes when they pull in front of the hotel. “We’re staying here? It looks like a castle!” 

“Hmm, its well located and easy to blend in with tourists,” Mycroft offers, looking up at the golden letters ‘Waldorf Astoria’. John’s description is apt, the hotel is massive, taking up multiple city blocks and soaring 47 floors into the sky. 

The lobby is just as awe inspiring and decorated for the occasion. A large Christmas tree greets them in the entrance, covered in faerie lights and glass ornaments in all shapes and sizes. John laughs and points out actual fairies that dart about the branches, their gossamer wings reflecting the lights in multi-coloured displays. 

Mycroft has never been one for Christmas, but the sight makes something in his chest seize, reminds him of Sherlock darting about the base of their own large tree, casting spells to make the ornaments dance. He can scarce imagine how angry Sherlock is about him not being around for the holiday. 

They are exhausted, but John is in no hurry to get to the room. He lingers, gazing slack jawed at the hall leading to the elevator, decked out in more white faerie lights and smaller Christmas trees. 

Finally, Mycroft manages to drag him away. Their room is simple compared to the spectacle of the lobby; two queen beds and a small seating area. He manages not to flop himself on the bed in exhaustion by sheer will alone. John has no such compunction and throws himself onto the bed hard enough to bounce a few times. “What do we do now?” he asks, voice muffled. 

Mycroft takes a seat, toeing off his shoes as he contemplates his answer. “I think the best idea now is to just sleep off our jet lag. It is late enough now that we should be adjusted to the time change if we sleep through the night. There is very little we can do now, that would not benefit from us both being well rested.”

“I’m gonna take a shower first,” John mumbles, not looking like he has any intention of moving, but then he rolls off the bed landing on his hands and toes like a cat. He does a push-up, rocking back on his feet and heads to the loo. 

An instant later Mycroft hears, “Woah! Check out the tub!” He can’t help it, he laughs. 

****

The next day they take the hotel’s transport to Central Park. “The park has the largest concentration of sprites and spirits in the city, someone here should be able to tell us how to summon the Hudson River,” Mycroft says as they step into the park. 

“Why can’t we just scry him? Isn’t that how they realized the Boston spirit was missing?” John asks. 

“Unfortunately, scrying for the Guardian always just points to the whole of the Hudson River, not all that useful.” Mycroft had memorized the map of Central park on the flight over and walks with confidence in the direction of the Bethesda Terrace and Fountain. “You’ll like Bethesda though, she is an angel statue, so I imagine she will be helpful. The inspiration for the statue should make her inclined to assist us as well.” 

“The inspiration, why?” John asks. 

Mycroft smirks, “the fountain design was inspired by the Gospel of John, Chapter five.” 

“Oh,” John laughs. 

The Bethesda Terrace is mostly deserted. The ground is littered with snow and the wind off the water is biting. Four cherubs are skiing lazily around the fountain, unbothered by the cold. 

“Hello Bethesda,” Mycroft greets, calling up to the statue at the top of the fountain. 

“Hello,” John calls as well, and with a furtive glance around the Terrace, pulls his wings from their portal. 

Bethesda comes to life with screech of metal. “Oh,” she exclaims, and glides down to them. “I haven’t seen one of you in a long time.” She reaches out and touches John cheek, but he can’t quite hide his flinch. 

“Oh my, sorry, so sorry dear,” she fusses. 

“It’s okay,” John smiles, “just cold.”

Bethesda looks down at her metal fingers, stained blue with patina. “Yes,” she chuckles, “I rather imagine it was. I always forget, but what is a fledging like yourself and your dear Charge doing out in this dreadful weather.” She looks up pointedly at the snow beginning to fall. 

John looks ready to deny the ‘charge’ title, but decides against it. “We need to ask the Hudson River a question, do you know how to find him.” 

“Oh no child, you don’t want to talk to that old sea bag,” she shakes her head, dislodging the pile of snow that had gathered in her sculpted curls. 

“I’m rather afraid we have to, it is important,” Mycroft urges. 

Bethesda sighs, sounding like squeaky hinges. “I’m sorry, I haven’t seen him since, well…” she points to the city skyline, there are no buildings where she is pointing. Not anymore anyways. “He took it hard, blames himself, no one’s seen him since.” 

Mycroft dips his head and draws the rune of remembrance in the air. “I’m sorry,” he says, simply. 

“Thank you,” Bethesda cups the rune in her palm, watching as it dissolves in a flash of warm light. “I don’t know how to find him, but if anyone can the Pigeon King can.” 

“The Pigeon King?” John asks. 

Bethesda covers her mouth to hide her grin. “First you’ll need a loaf of bread.” 

Mycroft and John shoot each other mirror looks of confusion. 

***

Bethesda gives them directions to a walking trail in Central park that is a favorite spot for pigeon feeders. The trail is lined by park benches and even in the snowy winter months the more stubborn of the bird feeders will come by to toss stale crumbs at the equally stubborn birds. 

There are pigeons all over the walkway, skittering this way and that for the choicest pieces of bread. Two get into a scuffle over a large piece of crust, snapping irritably at each other like New York drivers. 

“I know Bethesda said we’d know him when we saw him, but there are an awful lot of birds here,” John comments peering at the endless rows of birds. 

Mycroft rather agrees with him. He’d certainly never met the Cat Queen or Rat King of London. He tries looking on the astral plane and a spark of power in the back of the group draws his attention. He wades carefully through the birds, they barely shift out of his way, cooing angrily at him for interrupting their meal. 

At the back of the group, perched on a short ledge, is the largest pigeon Mycroft has ever seen. He seems to be holding court for a group of pigeons, that stare up at him with awe as he gestures his wings wildly. He is wearing a tiny crown on his head. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

After a series of apparently inspiring coos, the court disperses, fluttering off to the newest scattering of bread crumbs.

The Pigeon King turns his beady gaze on them, crown slipping back until he taps it back into place with his wing. “Oy,” he calls to them, surprisingly loud. “Whatta ya want?” He flaps over to them, landing on John’s shoulder and looking pointedly at the loaf of bread in his hands. 

John has to lean his head back to keep from being slapped in the face from a wayward wing. “We wanted to ask you a question, Bethesda said you’d be able to help us.” 

“Did she?” he preens, feathers fluffing. He shakes his head, “O‘course she did, tha King knows all.” 

Mycroft presses his lips together to stop from snorting. “Yes, she said you knew everything and everyone in the city.”

The King tucks the slipping crown back up. “Ya, ya, but aye require tribute.” 

“Oh we wouldn’t come empty handed great king, we brought tribute,” John says holding up the loaf of bread Bethesda sent them for, a 7-grain seed bread with sunflower crust.

The King hops excitedly, almost falling off John’s shoulder. He stops abruptly and holds his head up in the pigeon version of a regal air. “It’ll do.” 

“Could you,” John fights down a smile, “tell us how to find the Hudson River Guardian?”

“Oh easy, easy,” the King gestures with his wing, swatting John in the ear. 

“Yes…” Mycroft prompts. 

“Ah good watta seal down by tha riva’ll do. Make ‘im mad as hell, tho.” The King flutters down, gripping the loaf in his claws. He flies off without so much as a wave. 

“Did you understand a word of that?” John asks. 

“He said,” Mycroft sighs rubbing at his brow, “that a water seal by the river will summon him, but the Guardian will not be happy about it.” 

“Ah, that’s not good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the time I write the chapter and then draw the picture, but for this chapter the picture came first. Something about the pigeon with a crown on it's head just makes me smile.


	10. The Hudson River

# Chapter Ten: The Hudson River

They return to the hotel because water seals are not the sort of magic that can be done on the fly. John manages to keep his questions in until they are back in the room. “They didn’t really teach us much on water seals, it’s a pretty rare spell innit?”

“I don’t know if I would say rare,” Mycroft answers, pulling off his coat, “but unless the castor is quite powerful the spell is rather useless.” 

“Really?” John scrunches his nose in confusion, “why?”

Mycroft moves his hands in a complicated gesture and with a soft ‘pop’ a book appears in the air. It looks old, leather bound and pages yellowed. It also appears quite heavy as it falls to the bed with a solid thud. 

Mycroft pulls the book to him, flipping to a page in the first half of the book and pushing it over to John. The open page is filled with an illustration, with a helpful label at the bottom in elegant calligraphy ‘The Nile Water Seal’. The Seal has a triangle base filled with interlocking water runes set around cardinal points. It is structured in a way John remembers from his training, but he doesn’t recognize the tiny, cramped runes working along the edge of the triangle. “What is this?” he asks, running his fingers tentatively over the page. 

“Water seals in their most basic explanation, give power over a body of water to the caster,” Mycroft starts. 

John rolls his eyes at the lecture, but gives Mycroft his full attention.

“The problem with that is that any body of water that has a name also has an entity that takes control of it. Depending on the size, age, and importance of the water this can be anything from a common sprite to a Naiad to a Guardian.” 

John nods, “Right, like the Hudson River. It has all three; size, age, and importance. Which is why it is controlled by a Guardian.”

“Exactly,” Mycroft agrees. “To cast a successful water seal the castor must be strong enough to control not only the water but also the entity. For a pond with a sprite it would not take much power at all, but with a pond you would not be able to do much more than splash passerbys. This makes water seals essentially useless.” Mycroft flips the page in the book to another illustration. This one of a crocodile emerging onto shore, a rather massive one judging by the tiny people drawn around it. The inscription reads, ‘Guardian of the Nile.’

“If the castor is strong enough the seal can bind a Guardian, but it is practically a death sentence.” 

“Yeah I can imagine,” John pulls the book closer to get a better look. “I wouldn’t think the Guardian would be pleased.”

“No,” Mycroft shakes his head, “in fact there has only been one successful sealing of a guardian in recorded history.” He taps the book. “Thousands of years ago lived the Egyptian Pharaoh Narmer, who is one of the most powerful mages known to history. Of course back then the lines of kings were always filled with powerful castors. Most of the knowledge of how it was done has been lost to time, but it is known that Narmer managed to cast a working water seal on the Nile River and the Nile Guardian. He even managed a dynasty spell into the seal so that the power was transferred from Pharaoh to Pharaoh for years.”

“Whoa,” John says, awed. “Is it still sealed?” 

“No,” Mycroft turns to another page in the book where the crocodile is eating people in a flooded city. “The seal broke over time and you can imagine the Guardian was not much pleased.”

John winces, “Ew.” He flips the pages back to the drawing of the seal. “But you don’t actually have to seal the Hudson River, though, right? You just have to cast one to catch his attention.” 

Mycroft sighs, running his hand through his hair so the strands break from their usual gelled confines. “I have to cast a seal strong enough to catch his attention, and somehow manage to talk to him before he eats us.” 

“Ah,” John grimaces, thinking of the drawings. “Do you have a plan?” 

“Not yet,” Mycroft mutters, staring down at the book, but seeming to look right through it, “But I will.” 

In the following hours, Mycroft loses himself in study. He flips back and forth through the book and fills page after page of another book with his notes. Finally, he sits back with a sigh.

The bed creaks as John rises from it, coming around to the desk and peering over his shoulder. “That’s the one?” he asks. 

“Yes,” Mycroft answers, pride sneaking into his tone as he hands his book over. The seal has the same triangle base as the Nile Seal, but the water runes have been altered to better suit the environment of the Hudson River. The small rune work that sets the base of the spell has been altered as well. The Nile Seal used the Egyptian style of the time. Mycroft replaced it with latin. 

John taps one of the latin lines along the base of the triangle. “This is similar to a Summoner’s call isn’t it?” 

Mycroft nods, “Yes, I designed the seal with the same workings as a Summoner’s Circle. It effectively makes this a useless water seal, but once activated it will act as a homing beacon to the Guardian. It will hopefully make him less likely to eat us.” He offers a smile at his terrible joke and John returns it with a laugh. 

Mycroft taps the line John had indicated, “I’m surprised you recognize the structure?” 

“Hmm,” John hums, “they taught us all sorts of different things at the Compound. I can’t use any of the Summoner’s arts, no Angel can, but it’s still good to know.” 

“Why is that?” Mycroft asks.

John looks away, gaze fixed on the far wall. “Angel’s are Mythos, just like Guardians or Sprites, or any other sort of magical creature. And Mythos can’t cast most human magic.” He’s not sure why, because with his wings it is damn obvious, but he doesn’t like reminding Mycroft how very different he is. 

“Ahh, right,” he murmurs, “Mytho’s can’t cast summoning or sealing spells.”

“Yeah,” John turns his gaze back to him, but his posture is still tense. “It’d be chaos if Mythos could summon or seal each other after all. Of course, Angels can’t be summoned or sealed, so there is that.” At Mycroft’s questioning look, he continues, “It’s our bond, with our One. The bond acts like a contract and no Mythos can be bound by more than one contract at a time.” He shouldn’t be telling him this, even the Compound isn’t aware of these details, but he trusts Mycroft not to misuse the information. 

“Huh,” Mycroft sounds unconcerned, but the widening of his eyes shows his surprise. 

“I think it is time I turned in for the night. It will be best to do the summoning tomorrow when we are both better rested,” Mycroft says, pushing away from the desk. His back cracks as he stands.

The tense moment shatters, John laughs at the audible pop. “Alright old man, g’night.” 

****

The next morning they set out early. A new layer of snow has settled on the ground, but it is already marked with the passing footprints of the sleepless city. They head to a walking path that runs along the river. In the cold, with the sun still rising in the distance, the path is empty. It is strange to stand in the empty park and still hear the rumble of the city, to see echoes of nature with skyscrapers looming in the distance. 

Mycroft stops at a part of the walkway that juts out into the water. “Here will do,” he announces. 

John stops at his side and with a spark of holy magic, pulls his wings out of hiding. He flares them out, flapping them a few times before folding them behind him. The tips of his primaries ghost over the ground. 

With a flick of his fingers, Mycroft summons the seal he had designed. He tosses the paper and it sticks in the air in front of him. The ink glows purple as he draws his magic out, concentrating on every line, every rune he had painstakingly laid on the page. 

The concentrated magic burns away the paper in violet fire, but the mark remains, a blinding light against the dawn. He takes a breath, tries to steady his nerves. “I call on the Guardian, on the Hudson River, the ancient shores that protect this grand city. I call on the Serpent, Guardian of New York City, I call and you will listen!”

The seal flares, and before them the water churns. There is a shadow in the waves, a massive shape writhing beneath. With an explosion of ice and water so cold in burns, a great beast rises from the depths with a roar. 

Mycroft stumbles back, he looks over at John and they share a horrified look. This was a terrible plan. 

The Guardian is a massive sea serpent with dark scales like an oil slick and grey spines flared about it’s head and neck. It screeches, the sound deafening, as it rears its head back and unhinges its jaw wide enough to swallow a bus whole.

“Stop!” John yells, rushing forward and throwing his wings out. The feathers shimmer with holy light, power flowing off of him in an effort to distract.

The Guardian lowers it’s head, close enough they can smell the stench of rotting fish and seaweed from his open mouth. His warm breath wafts over them and John struggles not to lose his nonexistent breakfast. 

“You dare,” Hudson River snarls, the sort of deep growl of a voice that is more felt than heard. 

“Please forgive us Guardian, we had to speak with you, and knew no other way,” John pleads, his left wing stretching to hide Mycroft behind it. 

Mycroft taps the wing, making him reluctantly drop it. “Guardians are being threatened, disappearing from their cities without a trace.” 

Hudson River moves even closer so that all they can see is its dark scales and one ruby eye. He is close enough that Mycroft could reach out and touch him - if he didn’t particularly value his hand anyways. “I am aware,” he rumbles, “Boston is gone.” 

“Do you know where he went?” Mycroft asks. 

Sending freezing water in all directions, Hudson River shakes his head. “No, he is gone.” 

It takes John a long time to realize his meaning. The thought is… “That’s not,” John runs a trembling hand through his hair. “That’s not possible. Boston still stands, a Guardian remains as long as their city does.” 

Hudson River gives a throaty growl like the backfiring of a car. He’s laughing. “A Guardian can be killed, but not by mortal hands.” He hisses, forked tongue flicking out, “Demons are clawing their way out of the pits, ancient Darklings that have not seen mortal lands since the first dawn. A war is brewing.” 

John folds his wings tight behind him, shivering. “How do we fight them?”

Hudson River rises back, water splashing up their platform. “I will protect my humans,” he snarls, “they may spread their sewage and pollute my banks, but they are mine! I will not let any strike such a blow to my city, not again.” The words are an oath, they ring across the water, strong and true and lit with the promise of magic as old as the Earth itself. 

“Do you know who? Is there a leader?” Mycroft asks, still reeling from proximity to such an oath. 

“No,” Hudson River hisses, eyes narrowed in irritation. “I do not know the name of the one who schemes, but there is a shadow pulling at the darkness. Something is riling the old ones.” 

“Thank you,” Mycroft says. “I apologize for my rudeness in summoning you, but it was of the utmost importance.” 

Hudson River hums, a sound like a fog horn. “I suppose I won’t eat you, or your brave little fledgling.” His eyes narrow to slits. “I will listen for further news, the whole of the world visits my shores. If I hear of who threatens the balance I will send the Pigeon King or one of his kin.” 

“That is most gracious,” Mycroft bows, John mirroring the gesture. 

With his rumbling laugh, Hudson River rears back and plunges into the water. The proceeding splash soaks them, drenching them in icy water. 

John shakes his whole body, wings fluttering and throwing water in all directions like a dog. “Well,” he starts, giving his wings one more flick before they disappear, “that could have gone worse.” 

Mycroft looks over at him, hair sticking in all directions and lips starting to blue. His clothes are clinging to him, he looks like a drowned rat. His shoulders start to shake, lips twitching. 

John can’t keep a straight face, his wings shiver. They both burst into laughter. 

***

They take a taxi back to the hotel, the driver scowls at their sopping clothes, but Mycroft manages to convince him with a generous tip. After a few side eyes in the lobby and a fight for the shower, they are both feeling better. 

Mycroft pulls on one of the hotel’s robes and leans into the pile of pillows against the headboard. He looks drained, dark smudges of exhaustion lingering beneath his eyes.

John is perched on the opposite bed. His hair is in even more of a disarray than usual and he has brought his wings back. He spreads them out across the bed and tossing every available towel over the water-logged feathers. He fusses over his coverlets, grumbling under his breath as he tries to stop them from curling as they dry.

John, sensing Mycroft’s gaze, looks up and shoots him a wry grin. “Well, we didn’t get much information, but we also didn’t get eaten.” 

“Hmm,” Mycroft hums, “we did learn that Guardians can apparently be killed and that there is an unknown demon trying to bring creatures we aren’t equipped to fight into our realm. Not the best of information, no.” 

With a shiver, John sends most of the towels fluttering off the bed, whoops. “But we can stop it can’t we? They aren’t released yet.” 

“One can only hope that we can stop it in time, but I do not know where to go next!” Mycroft growls, obviously frustrated. “I…” he stops face twisting with what looks like pain. He gasps, curling in on himself. 

John leaps from the bed, “Mycroft!” He grabs the Seer by his shoulders and shakes him, “Mycroft!” His eyes flutter open, and for a moment there is no one there. The gaze that meets John is devoid of life, eyes blank and horrifying. Then they clear, returning to their usual hazel, flashing with intelligence.

Mycroft straightens, blinking rapidly. “Sorry,” he wheezes, pressing his palm against his chest. 

“Don’t apologize,” John grips his shoulders tighter and uses them to give a little shake. “Are you alright?” John can actually feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath his hands. 

Mycroft nods and gives John a nudge to back up. He takes a few deep breaths and looks over the hotel room. “I’m fine,” he promises, much too slowly. “It was a vision, I haven’t had one that strong in awhile.”

“You looked like you were having a heart attack,” he pauses, “or a possession.” John steps further back letting his wings curl around his shoulders like a blanket.

Mycroft shakes his head. “No, I’m fine, and now I know where we need to go next.” 

“You want to go to wherever you just saw? It scared the hell out of you, don’t deny it,” John scowls. He can tell how shaken Mycroft is, the room reeks of fear, he can taste it on the back of his throat, sharp and coppery like blood.

“We just summoned an angry Guardian in a method almost assured to get us eaten. If we didn’t do the things that scared us, neither one of us would be here, now would we?” he argues. 

The man has a good point, but still. “Are you sure?” 

Mycroft glares at him, the full force of a Seer’s gaze.

John deflates, wings dipping to drag along the ground. “Yeah, okay,” he admits. “Where are we going?” 

“Hong Kong.”


	11. The General

# Chapter Eleven: The General

This is a bad idea. Lestrade knows this is a bad idea, has been thinking it since the moment Sherlock activated the mark, and yet here he is.

The mark leads them to a circus of all places. A small performance stage rented out for ‘limited time only!’ The circus is closed at the moment, but Lestrade just has to flash his badge to get the security guard to let them in. 

Sherlock heads straight for the staging area, the back rooms filled with colourful costumes and props. Lestrade can feel magic all around, but that is hardly unusual for these sorts of shows. The room Sherlock stops at, however, is guarded with a powerful locking spell. “Careful,” Lestrade cautions, pulling Sherlock back before he can do something stupid. 

“I can break it,” Sherlock argues. 

“I’m sure you can,” Lestrade agrees, drawing a powerful breaking rune in the air. The mark flashes with power, slamming into the spell with a sound like breaking glass. 

Sherlock huffs, clearly unimpressed. “Someone will have heard that,” he snarks, pushing the door open and marching in. 

Lestrade rolls his eyes. The door leads to a dressing room of some sort, the General is gone. The room is empty but for a rack of costumes and a makeup table against the wall, covered in papers. On the top is a polaroid of a jade sculpture. “Hmm,” Lestrade picks it up. On the other side someone has written ‘Jade Dragon Pin, Qin Dynasty’. 

“That must be what they’re looking for,” Sherlock snatches the photo from his hand. “Even small quantities of jade can hold incredible enchantments. It’s rather difficult to enchant, however, even level twelves struggle with it.” 

Lestrade snatches the picture back, just to be childish. “Look at the shape. If it really is from the Qin dynasty, something that old, chances are…”

“Oh,” Sherlock’s eyes flash with seer light, “It’s dragon blessed.” 

“Which makes it powerful and it means they really want it back,” he hands the picture back over and looks at the other papers. Most of it looks like shipping manifests, but there is a crinkled post-it with two names on it. The first is Brian Lukis, a single red line slashing through the name. The second name is Eddie Van Coon and there is no line. 

“Another of the smugglers, so they aren’t certain who has it,” Sherlock comments, looking thoughtful. 

“Wait, so if the General has gone to take care of Van Coon, why did the mark leads us here?” 

Sherlock’s eyes grow wide. “It’s a trap.” 

Lestrade curses, grabs Sherlock’s arm and sprints through the door. They make it out of the back without trouble, jumping past a curtain and onto the main stage. Lestrade lets himself relax too soon. There a whoosh of displaced air, and without thinking he throws them both to the side, covering Sherlock with his body. 

A goddamned spear embeds in the wall above their heads. Lestrade rolls to the side, dragging Sherlock with him. Sherlock sputters indignantly, but he lets Lestrade haul him to his feet. 

There are three men on the other side of the room, all dressed in ridiculous yellow leotards. Magically, they are all of average strength, but Lestrade is worried about the weapons, two with swords and the one with spears. 

“I can take the man on the left, he hurt his ankle recently, most likely during the last performance, and his sword has a…” 

“Alright, alright, take that one,” Lestrade interrupts before Sherlock ruins his own element of surprise. The man in question is already shooting his sword a curious look. 

Lestrade rushes his two men, leading with a powerful shield spell to separate them from Sherlock’s choice. The man with the spear lunges, scraping off the shield. Lestrade draws his athame, spinning it in his hand to block the sword coming at his side. 

He hears cursing behind him, not Sherlock, and hopes the kid is okay. He can’t risk looking, can only block a stab and step away from another. It is a whirl of dodge, block, slash, over and over. He doesn’t immediately realize that the spear guy has stepped out of the fray. He’s off to the right, aiming right for Sherlock, who is distracted holding off his own man.

Their plan is obvious, kill Sherlock and the three of them can overpower him. The man pulls his arm back, spear glinting with magic. 

It isn’t a choice, Lestrade acts. As the spear goes flying, he leaps towards it, pulling his magic to him in a way he hasn’t done in years. His muscles ache, back straining with unexpected weight. His wings are a disarray of silver feathers long neglected, but certainly strong enough to sweep the spear away. He spins his athame, pulling his magic into the blade and returning it to it’s proper form. The blade and handle lengthen, metal warm and familiar in his hands, a spear forged by holy magic.

The men he had been fighting have both fallen to their knees, eyes wide and horrified. 

“You dare!” he snarls, flaring his wings up for effect, feathers bristling. 

One of the men actually squeaks. They turn as one and scramble away, leaving their weapons behind without so much as a backward glance.

Lestrade turns to face Sherlock, and finds that his opponent is passed out on the ground, a concussive rune still burning on his brow.

“You… You,” Sherlock stutters. He’s fallen on his arse, looking up at Lestrade in amazement. 

“I’ll be damned,” Lestrade grins, “You do have an off switch.” 

Sherlock, as he expected, scowls. “It was obvious of course, should have guessed,” he recovers, standing up with a huff. His coat flutters unhappily, brushing dust off. “I did not factor in all possibilities for my hypothesis, foolish.” 

Lestrade shakes his head, “Only a handful of people on the force know the truth, and only because it is impossible to pass the physical without someone noticing all the holy magic. I wouldn’t beat yourself up about it.” 

Sherlock steps into his space, close enough Lestrade can feel his breath against his wings. “They’re a mess,” he comments, reaching out, “you haven’t groomed them in some time.” 

Lestrade pushes his hand away, not unkindly. “I’ll fix them later. We don’t have time.” He stretches his wings out, sweeping them up to full height before folding them against his back. They disappear in a flash of magic. He spins his spear, faster and faster until it is back to being a long dagger. With a flick of his fingers he makes it disappear as well. 

Sherlock’s eyes widen, “Of course, how did I never notice? Stupid. You’ve been pulling a 30 centimeter knife out of your pocket, no sheath, nothing. You’ve been summoning it every time.” 

“Don’t fret,” Lestrade pulls his phone from his pocket before giving Sherlock a wink. “It’s spelled for you not to notice.” He sends off a text to Donovan. “Come on, she’ll send me Eddie Van Coon’s address, we need to hurry.” 

***

Eddie Van Coon lives in a highrise in an expensive part of town. According to Donovan, the man is some sort of international banker, specializing in asian markets. Lestrade doesn’t bother waiting for backup, there isn’t time. He forces the door with a not-so-legal lock picking charm, and shoots up the stairs, Sherlock on his heels. 

The door to Eddie Van Coon’s flat is broken open. Lestrade holds Sherlock back at the entrance. “Wait here.” 

Sherlock scowls, “Zhi Zu will be with the General, you’ll need back up.” 

“Stay here, Sherlock,” Lestrade pulls his athame from his pocket, grip white-knuckle tight. “I mean it,” he fixes Sherlock with a stern glare, “I smell blood.”

Sherlock hesitates, clearly debating with himself, but he gives a sharp nod and steps aside. 

Lestrade lets the tension bleed out of his shoulders even as he steps into the flat. He feels better just knowing Sherlock is out of the fray, at least for now. The scent of blood gets stronger as he makes his way to the back of the flat. There are no sounds indicating a struggle, which doesn’t bode well for Van Coon. 

He steps into the bedroom and gags. Van Coon is dead, splayed across the bed with a knife in his throat and a gun in his palm. There is an older chinese woman crumpled on the floor, a puddle of blood drying on the carpet beneath her from the gunshot wound in her gut. Beside her, is a pile of black sludge that Lestrade assumes are the remains of Zhi Zu, his body released from the spell when the General died. 

“Van Coon didn’t shoot the General.” 

“Christ!” Lestrade jumps, spinning around to find Sherlock in the doorway. “I said wait.” 

“You took too long,” Sherlock shrugs, and steps over to get a closer look at Van Coon. 

“Don’t touch him,” Lestrade cautions, “Donovan will be here soon.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’m not an idiot, besides, I saw all I needed coming through the flat. Eddie Van Coon was left handed.” 

Lestrade gives a pointed look at the gun in his right hand. “Was he?” he asks drolly. 

With a huff Sherlock gestures at the pen and paper by the phone. “Look at it, pen on the left and the writing is clearly indicative of a left hand writer, look at the smudges. Not to mention a dozen other clues.” 

He takes a closer look at the pad, the writing is mostly the sort of nonsense people do when stuck listening to a long story over the phone. Sherlock is, of course, right. “He could just prefer to shoot right handed, it’s not unusual.” 

“In the military and the police certainly, they often train everyone right handed, but Van Coon was an office worker with no such training. This is his gun, the safe in his closet proves that, but he has never fired it.” 

“You’re suggesting what exactly? That someone else broke in during this and killed everyone and then ran off with the dragon pin,” Lestrade steps around the scene, taking in everything with a critical eye. 

“No,” Sherlock points out the knife. “This was Zhi Zhu's blade, there is death magic all over it. They threatened him and when he gave away the location of the pin, they killed him, but someone else was here, watching, waiting. They used Van Coon’s gun to shoot the General, which destroyed her necromancy spell and released Zhi Zhu's body.” He indicates the stuff on the floor. “They were in a rush, must have heard us coming, and placed the gun in Van Coon’s hand, making it look like they murdered each other while they snuck away with the pin.” 

“You might be right,” Lestrade hums, taking a closer look at the knife and gun. 

“Might be,” Sherlock bristles. 

“Yes, might, but I need you to go back to the car and wait. For real this time, Sherlock. The team will be here soon, and while Donovan might turn a blind eye to you being on cases, not everyone else will be so easy about a child at the sight of a homicide.” Lestrade gives Sherlock a push towards the door. The cloak must be getting use to him, because it doesn’t sting him this time, just gives an angry flutter in his direction. 

Sherlock stumbles before turning. “I can explain to them what happened. They’re idiots, they won’t realize he was left handed.” 

“I’ll tell them, I swear, but you can’t be here. The Detective Inspector in charge of this case will be here and he can’t see you. I’ll be fired in a heartbeat.” 

Sherlock lights up suddenly, “What if you tell them that I’m your One. They can’t chase me off if they think you’re bonded.” 

Lestrade knows Sherlock doesn’t mean anything by it, the kid just wants to prove his deductions and solve the case, he knows this, but can’t stop his anger from bubbling up. “You are not,” he snarls, “my One.” 

Sherlock steps back, knocking into the door frame in his rush. 

Lestrade belatedly realizes he’s pulled his wings out. Twice in one day, he needs to get a grip on himself. In the bedroom his wings, already large, look massive, filling the space and blocking out the light from the window. He pulls them back in, disappearing them with a thought. The look Sherlock is giving him makes him feel like a cad. He takes a deep breath, “I’m sorry.” He sighs, “I overreacted. That just isn’t... you just can’t say things like, okay? Besides, hardly anyone knows what I am.” 

It is a visible effort for Sherlock to pull himself back together, but he hides his hurt quickly behind his usual look of disdain. “Yes, of course,” he straightens his coat, popping up his collar like a shield. 

Lestrade watches him go, contemplating following after him, but there are sirens in the distance. It is only a matter of moments before the team is clomping into the flat. 

Sally goes straight to him, giving him and the room a once over. She looks grateful to find Sherlock absent. 

The techs go to the bodies in a flurry of activity, taking pictures and cataloging evidence. “I’ll take it from here Sergeant,” DI Gregson announces, breezing into the scene. 

“Thank you sir,” Lestrade has to play this just right, Gregson has always been a self-absorbed prat. “Sir, some of the scene may have been staged. Eddie Van Coon is left handed,” he suggests, gesturing to the gun. 

“Yes, yes, I’ll take it from here,” Gregson dismisses them with a wave of his hand. 

“Sir,” Lestrade starts, but Sally grabs him by the shoulder and shakes her head. Lestrade curses under his breath, but lets her lead him out. 

“Was the kid here?” she asks, once they are free of the flat. 

“Yeah,” Lestrade doesn’t bother to lie. “He’s, hopefully, downstairs waiting for me.” 

Sally runs her hand over her face. “Lestrade is he?” 

“No,” Lestrade shakes his head. Sally has known what he is not long after they became partners. A case with a particularly powerful demon had required his unique brand of holy magic. “I just,” Lestrade sighs, “He’s bloody brilliant and he needs someone keeping an eye on him.” 

“And that has to be you? Does he not have a family? That kid has posh written all over him,” Sally is not convinced. 

Lestrade quirks a smile, posh is one word for it. “They aren’t around at the moment, and he does,” Lestrade presses his palm to his chest, he settles for, “he’s important.” 

Sally slumps, “Ah christ. He’s a Link.” 

A Link, one of the many terms for the people that help lead angels to their One, Lestrade supposes it is apt. “Yes.” 

“I know that you want to keep him close, that it is an instinct, but he’s just a kid. This is a dangerous job and no matter how strong or clever he is, he’s fourteen.” Sally’s jaw is a stubborn jut. 

“I,” Lestrade hesitates, looking towards the door. Sally’s right, he’s being selfish. “I’ll fix it.” 

She grasps his shoulder giving it a squeeze. “Sorry.” 

“No, you’re right.” He gives her a small smile, “like always.” 

They go downstairs together. Amazingly, Sherlock is leaning against the police car, looking bored while trying to glance at them from the corner of his eye. 

Sally gives Lestrade another clap on the shoulder, before heading in the opposite direction. 

Sherlock straightens as he approaches, trying not to look eager. “Well?”

Lestrade forces a smile, “I told him what you told me, we’ll know more tomorrow after forensics is done. Come on, let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you surprised? I hope you'll are surprised. Lestrade started out just being a cameo character, but as soon as Sherlock started getting more screen time, he suddenly became a character of his own as well.


	12. Cornwall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things don't work out quite the way Sherlock wants.

# Chapter Twelve: Cornwall

Sherlock doesn’t sleep that night. There is simply too much to think about. His mind is stretched in multiple directions. He thinks about the Golem, Soo Lin, the General, the dragon pin, and most of all he thinks about the angel snoring a few meters away.

His knowledge on angels is somewhat limited. The government guards them like treasures, hoarding their secrets. What he does know, is that all angels have blond hair and blue eyes with white wings tipped in gold. This does not seem to be the case for Lestrade. While his eyes are blue. his hair is a mix of silver and grey, his wings sharing the same coloration. Is he unhealthy? His wings, while impressive, were certainly a mess, primaries missing and secondaries in disarray. 

Sherlock presses his palms together and thinks. 

He comes back to himself when Lestrade wakes up. The man does not do mornings. He comes awake in a grumble, slapping at his alarm clock as if it has offended him. He does not step out of bed, so much as roll off the side. It is rather humorous to watch actually. 

When Lestrade shuffles out of the loo, he only opens his eyes wide enough to get to the coffee pot. Sherlock watches his every movement, cataloguing. Besides the ungodly amount of time it takes him to wake up in the morning, he sees no indication of illness. Of course he has no control group, certainly no other angel for comparison. 

It is a painful wait, but Sherlock lets him get down his first few sips of coffee before asking, “the case?” 

“Hmm,” Lestrade sinks into the armchair, mug cradled in his hands. 

Sherlock sighs, “The case, Lestrade. Have you had any updates?” 

Lestrade blinks rapidly, Sherlock can practically see the rusty gears turning. He pulls out his phone and clicks over to messages. Sherlock watches him go from slack sleepiness to a full body wince. 

“No,” Sherlock snarls, “They closed the case?” 

Lestrade winces again. “I told them what you told me Sherlock, but forensics found gunpowder residue on Van Coon. They ruled it a double homicide, stating that Van Coon must have learned to shoot right handed despite his preference.” 

“Well, I’ll just have to go a show them how wrong they are,” Sherlock stands in flurry, drawing his coat to him with a flick of his fingers. 

Lestrade blocks his way. “No Sherlock. You can’t go traipsing off to the station, and the case is closed.” 

“Well then come with me,” Sherlock dodges him by simply walking over the coffee table, “and unclose it.” 

Lestrade sighs, running his hand through his sleep mussed hair. “I can’t, you know I can’t, and I think,” he straightens his shoulders, fully engaged now, “I think it is time for you to go home.” 

Sherlock can’t quite hide the hurt that crosses his face, but he exchanges it quickly for a scowl. “Then don’t think, clearly it isn’t doing you any favours. I told you, it is winter holidays and I.”

Lestrade cuts him off, “Yes, winter holidays, and Christmas is in two days. You should be home. Not running around London chasing criminals and nearly getting yourself killed.” 

Sherlock hadn’t been aware of the date. As soon as December started it always looked like Christmas was right around the corner. “I’ve been perfectly safe, besides you insist that I stay with you, and I have,” he pauses at Lestrade’s dubious look, “mostly. Either way, I’m fine. Not so much as a scratch.” 

“For now,” Lestrade agrees, “but you need to go home. You’ve an excellent eye for police work, and in a few years come look me up. I’ll give you a recommendation for the academy, but for now, go home. Be a kid, enjoy the holidays, go to school.” 

“Is this about what I said?” Sherlock snaps, furious at Lestrade, but also angry at himself. He always says the wrong thing, how does Mycroft maneuver people so smoothly? 

Lestrade flinches, “No, Sherlock that’s not...That’s not why.” He goes over to the printer, grabbing a sheet from the tray and holding it out. “Here, to go back to Cornwall.” 

Sherlock doesn’t spare it a glance, crumpling the paper in his fist. “Fine,” he snaps, “I’ll leave.” 

“No wait,” Lestrade reaches out, but hesitates, not touching. “I’ll give you a ride.” 

“I can make my way to the train station just fine.” Sherlock has no intention of using the ticket. 

Lestrade, having an inconvenient insight, deduces just that. “No, I’ll drive you. Make sure you get on okay.” 

Sherlock contemplates just flinging a spell in his face and making a run for it, but he gives in with a sigh. He’ll go back for now. Next time, he will be better prepared. 

Lestrade stays true to his word, walking him right onto the train and waiting on the platform until it speeds off. The ride is intolerable, surrounded by loud families traveling for the holidays. The Christmas music piped through the speakers scrapes across his skull. To keep sane, he closes his eyes and breathes deeply. He can’t concentrate, the cacophony keeping him from the sanctuary of his mind palace.

When the train finally reaches his stop, he bolts from his seat, sparing no concern for the fumbling idiots that don’t move out of his way fast enough. He leaves a string of curses in his wake. 

The estate is quite the distance from the station, but even the thought of getting into a cab grates, so he walks. By the time he walks through the front gates, the sun is setting and his legs ache. 

Mr. Hawthorne, the butler and Sherlock’s ‘minder’, is in the kitchen with a cuppa. He hardly spares Sherlock a glance. “You’ve been leaving early,” he comments off hand. 

Sherlock pauses, giving the man an incredulous look. He hadn’t even noticed he was gone? He doesn’t know why he is surprised. Mr. Hawthorne’s concerns have only ever been for the estate and that Sherlock was still breathing. Sherlock shakes his head, “I’ll take dinner in my room.” 

“Ay, see that you eat it this time,” Mr. Hawthorne calls after him. 

Sherlock ignores him. 

***

He breaks down and sleeps that night, too irritated to do much else, but the next morning he starts his research. The jade dragon pin is surprisingly easy to find with the right search term. It only takes a few pages to pull up an excerpt. As suspected, the pin is from the Qin Dynasty. A gift given to the emperor Xiaowen for aiding a river dragon. Though reports vary as to the abilities of the pin, everything from healing to a powerful spell focus. The pin was promptly passed on when the emperor died rather suddenly a year into his leadership. The excerpt follows the pin until its disappearance in the 18th century. 

Sherlock rather suspects the pin was stolen and has been moving through various illegal hands over the years. The question is who wants it now and why? Whatever the pin does, if it’s origins are true, than it would be quite the treasure, but did the thief want the pin for money or magic?

He pushes away from the computer with a sigh. “I need more information! I cannot deduce without facts, and I cannot get facts without access.” He leaves the house, needing to work off his frustration. Mr. Hawthorne is nowhere to be seen. 

It must have snowed sometime in the night. There is a thin layer of white coating everything, but it does little to obscure the well worn path in the backyard. Sherlock follows it with sure steps, having long since memorized the route. 

It is quiet, still early in the morning and the cold keeping even the wildlife abed. The cemetery is the only source of color on his path. The season always brings about sentimentality, and signs of it mark the headstones. There are fresh flowers on almost all of the graves, the dusting of snow only enhancing the colour of the blooms. 

Sherlock moves between the maze of stones to two graves a little off from the rest. The tombstones are a high-sheen black like onyx, protected under the shadow of a great oak. There is a large crow sitting on the left grave. It glares at Sherlock, eyes gleaming. “Shoo,” Sherlock snarls, flicking out a stinging rune. It misses. The crow flies off with a screech like laughter. 

He approaches the graves with a scowl, but smooths out his expression when he brushes the snow from the stones. There is writing beneath. One reads “Timothy C. Holmes, Loving Husband and Father.” Below is a series of what would look like nonsense chemical equations to most, but Sherlock knows it is an alchemy joke about the meaning of life. Father always did have the worse sense of humour. The second grave reads “Wanda V. Holmes, Loving Wife and Mother.” Under the writing is a series of arithmancy equations, the punch line to father’s joke. 

Sherlock settles between the graves, leaning his back against Mummy’s. The cold stone seeps through his coat and shirt. He ignores the discomfort, wrapping his coat tighter around him and crossing his arms over his chest. He leans his head back against the stone and listens to wind screaming through the forest.

“I went to a crime scene in London,” he says after a time, his breath dispersing in a puff of fog. “Two crime scenes, actually. I met an angel. A detective.” Whom he had lied to about his parents being on a cruise. He wonders if he had told the truth, if Lestrade would have let him stay. Possibly. Too late now.

“The MET are the biggest idiots, the lot of them.” Sherlock tells them about the cases, the sewers, the golem, and discovering that he he had been staying with an angel. By the time he is done, he’s thirsty, his face has gone numb, and his legs have fallen asleep. 

Sherlock gets up with care, using the stones to support him. His legs ache, blood rushing back and leaving a wake of painful tingles. He presses his fingers down one calf then the other, soothing the twitching muscle before he dares to take a step. When his legs decide to connect properly with the rest of his nervous system, he heads back for the house. It’s snowing again, must have been for awhile now, because he has to brush off his coat. It’s gotten wet and is irritated about it, the eye on his collar glares at him. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, running his fingers along the lapel with a whisper of a drying spell. The coat is spelled to repel water, but hours under snowfall is a bit beyond the spell. During the walk back he contemplates the build of a stronger weatherproofing spell. Or a potion, perhaps with pooka fur, hmm. 

When he gets back to the house, Mr. Hawthorne is still gone. Though he isn’t surprised, a check of the calendar by the door reveals that it is boxing day. That is a surprise. He often loses time while researching, but he hadn’t meant to miss Christmas. 

Mycroft hadn’t called. 

He shoves that thought away with a sneer. He isn’t a child to be amused by thoughts of Father Christmas. It’s just another day of the year. The house has no faerie lights, tree, or presents. He is marching up to his room to continue his research, when the phone rings. The noise is sharp and grating, that’s the only reason he answers it. 

“Yes,” He barks into the receiver. 

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing Mycroft says, and it startles Sherlock enough he nearly drops the phone. 

“What?” 

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft repeats, and he sounds sincere. “I got caught up in...work,” his speech is stilted. Sherlock knows that Mycroft wasn’t offered a position in transportation, that had just been smoke screen for whatever agency was listening on the other end, either MI5 or MI6. Considering his brother’s sudden leave of the country, he is rather certain Mycroft’s new employers are MI6. 

“Hmm dull. Did you have to sort out a few holiday traffic jams?” Sherlock sneers down the line. He knows Mycroft will interpret his true meaning. 

“Ah, quite,” Mycroft almost sounds like he’s chuckling, there is certainly a lightness to his tone that had not been there before. “I simply wanted to wish you a belated Happy Christmas. Have you been well?” 

“Next you’ll be asking me about the weather. Is there a purpose to this call other than inane pleasantries and false cheer?” 

“It isn’t false, Sherlock,” Mycroft pauses and Sherlock can just make out another voice in the distance. The timbre is male and young, but determining exact age and dialect would require a clearer sound. 

“Yes. Just a moment,” Mycroft calls to the person with him. 

“Who is that?” Sherlock asks, because while he is well aware that Mycroft might have colleagues, whoever had been talking to him sounded fond. 

“That is,” Mycroft pauses, “John.” He sounds almost confused by the answer, as if unsure of how to categorize this mysterious person. 

Sherlock is instantly curious, which is of course when Mycroft tries to change the subject, “Where is Mr. Hawthorne? I need to speak to him.” 

Sherlock is intrigued and not watching his words, which is the only excuse for the sheer idiocy of what he says next. “Gone. Probably to the pub, and then to the flat of one of the shopkeepers he’s been fornicating with, but that isn’t important. Who is this John?” 

There is a long silence on the line, long enough for Sherlock to curse himself in a good number of languages. 

“I should have known when he didn’t call to inform me you were missing during your London adventure. Mr. Hawthorne hasn’t been keeping an eye on you,” Mycroft tsks. 

“I don’t need a minder!”

“Clearly you do,” Mycroft sighs, and Sherlock can imagine him rubbing his brow in exasperation. “I’ll send a more suitable replacement shortly, brother dear. Do try to behave in the meantime.” 

The line beeps, Mycroft having hung up on his end. “Shite,” Sherlock growls, slamming the phone down. He stomps up to his room on principle, and lets his door slam when he realizes Mycroft managed to evade the question. Who is John?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter came out unexpectedly sad, sorry.


	13. Nan Lian Garden

# Chapter Thirteen: Nan Lian Garden

Hong Kong glows with ancient magicks and Mycroft finds himself squinting, despite the smog laying heavy over the city. He has to force his senses back, pushing them into a cramped corner of his mind until he is all but blind to the spectral planes.

“Are you alright?” John asks at his side. The angel looks fretful, eyes darting over his body in concern. He’s been even more protective than usual since the vision in New York.

“I’m fine John,” Mycroft assures him, “the magic here is very old, even more ancient than the energy seeped in London’s stones.” 

John nods, understanding. His gaze flicks over the city, taking in the modern architecture blended with ancient stone work. “It feels different, more elemental.” 

Mycroft wonders how the city appears to him, if he can see the power running through every structure? He hums in agreement, London magic has a regimented feel to it, running smooth and orderly. Hong Kong is wilder, the untamed thrum of the elements running like fire through his veins. 

“Do you know anything about the Guardian here?” John asks. 

Mycroft forces himself to focus, the magic here is making him sloppy. “Tianlong, a celestial dragon of some power. She is known to be quite friendly and helpful, but she moves wildly about the city; hopping between temples, buildings, and bodies of water. She has even been spotted winding across the sky.” 

“Please don’t tell me we have to do another summoning?” 

“No,” Mycroft fights off a shudder, he has no interest inducing that sort of rage in a Guardian ever again. “When I had my vision, I saw where she was going to be.” 

“That’s useful,” John grins. 

“Rather.” 

Of course, Mycroft’s vision had shown the guardian at night so they have a few hours yet. They check into their hotel, a looming skyscraper with amazing views of the city, but John’s wings droop as he looks out at the city. 

“What’s wrong?” Mycroft has grown used to John’s wide-eyed appreciation of the world. 

John’s wings twitch. “It’s Christmas Eve,” he admits with a sigh. 

Mycroft blinks, surprised. The date had escaped him, with the mess in New York and the time change, he hadn’t noticed. Distantly, he thinks about calling his brother, but he sets his focus on John. “Compared to New York, Hong Kong certainly lacks the holiday spirit.” 

“I know it’s stupid,” he scowls, “but it was the only time of the year that the Compound really changed. Someone would bring in a tree and we’d learn to make faerie lights and decorations. I miss…” he starts and clams up with a click of his teeth, frowning in irritation. 

“You miss the other angels? Your family?” Mycroft hazards a guess. 

John’s wings droop until his primaries bend against the floor. “Yeah,” he admits. 

Mycroft thinks of Sherlock again and feels a twist of guilt at being away. His brother always did love the holidays. “I’m certainly a poor substitute, but perhaps this will help.” Light spells are one of the first he learned, he conjures a number of them with a flick of his fingers, pinning the shimmering spheres along the windows and ceiling. 

John’s face lights up with a smile, wide and childish. For the first time, Mycroft thinks, he looks his age. “Thank you,” he grins, snapping his fingers to add to the magic. He doesn’t conjure a tree, but he does fill the room with the heady scent of pine mixed with cinnamon and cider. 

To complete the impromptu decorating, John manages to hunt down the only english channel playing christmas cartoons. It is an indulgence Mycroft never participated in, even as a child, but he joins John on the couch and watches a red-nosed reindeer save Christmas.

*** 

They head out just as the sun is starting to set. The sky lights in a riot of colors, beautiful even with the cloud of smog hanging thick over the city. Mycroft leads the way through a series of high-rise apartments that give way to an oasis. 

The Nan Lian Garden is a haven of greenery, plants of all varietals perch on grassy hills, surrounding a placid lake. In the center of it all, vibrant red bridge leading to a golden shrine. 

John steps into the garden, eyes wide with wonder before confusion crosses his features. “Wait,” he murmurs, looking around. “It’s all green in December and warm?” 

Mycroft huffs, hiding a laugh. “Yes, most don’t realize. Their minds just marvel at the beauty and slip right over the oddity. This is the current shrine of Tianlong.” 

“And this is her blessing?” John asks.

“Yes, she’s a celestial dragon. Her gift is life,” Mycroft explains, heading across the bridge. He stops midway, turning to face the lake. 

John settles beside him, leaning against the railing. With a glance around the garden, he pulls his wings out. 

Mycroft knows they have a few minutes before the guardian appears, and decides to ask a question that has been nagging him since London. “How do you get your wings to pass through your clothing?” 

John scratches the back of his head, looking embarrassed. “I keep the base of my wings sort of out of sync with this plane. It kinda itches, but it’s better than ripping all my shirts.” 

“Mi6 couldn’t purchase wing accommodating clothing?”

John shrugs, “It’s not really a large market so they always have to be handmade. It can get expensive, so we just went shirtless or phased our wings. It works.” 

Mycroft nods, but can’t help but be impressed by the kind of concentration that must take. His thoughts are pulled away by a light at the edge of his vision. He turns back to the lake where a dim glow has appeared. The water starts to bubble as the light grows brighter, rushing to the surface. 

Golden light erupts from the water with a splash, droplets raining down on the bridge and it’s inhabitants. Mycroft scrubs the water from his face and wonders if they will ever manage to meet a guardian without being soaked. 

Tianlong resembles a tapestry come to life, a serpentine figure resplendent in scales of gold and silver. Her body moves in hypnotic twists and turns, never pausing. She turns to them with eyes of liquid gold.

In the face of the Hudson River, Mycroft had felt fear and determination. Faced with Tianlong, he feels warmth and awe. Her glow washes over him, healing aches he had not known existed and bolstering his magic.

John steps back and bows, wings flared in a reverent display. 

Mycroft follows in his own bow, balancing over the point of his brolly. The ash wood of the handle hums in his palm, soaking up the excess energy from the Guardian’s glow. “Tianlong, you honour us with your presence.” 

The dragon twists, mane dancing in a shimmer along her spine. Her laughter sounds like bells. “You are a wily one Farsight, but you’ve brought along a Fallen Star. Will you fly with me little one?” 

John straightens, looking startled. “I … ah, yes, I’d be honoured.” He flexes his wings, taking a leaping step onto the railing and diving off the the edge, wings pumping in great gusts. 

Mycroft hasn’t seen him fly since the Compound, but it was nothing like this display. Tianlong moves in sinuous waves, claws tucked against her belly so John can weave between her movements. His wings shimmer in the faerie lights that bloom along the pond, feathers expanding and contracting with athletic grace. 

Mycroft loses track of how long they dance, hypnotized by the fluid movements. When John settles back at his side, landing lightly on his toes with a rustle of feathers, it feels as if an instant and an eternity has passed. 

Tianlong dips her head toward them, whiskers curling along the bridge. “Thank you,” she says, and around them the garden blooms in a riots of glowing blossoms. 

“You are quite welcome,” John grins, chest heaving from the exertion of his flight. 

She stretches her neck, scales glinting, to press a blessing to his brow. “You have traveled far my dear Fallen Star, but your One is closer than you think.” 

“Do you know who they are?” John asks, leaning into her touch. In the wake of her glow, his face is cast in shadows. 

Tianlong pulls away, form twisting into ever tighter coils. “I’m afraid not little one,” her head dips in a forlorn shake. “You will find them, but it will be through great pain that you will be brought together.” 

Mycroft watches as John’s face shifts into a confused mix of hope and devastation. Silence reigns across the garden as they digest the information. It is the sort of silence that he loathes to break, but they have a mission. “Do you know anything about the Guardians that have gone missing or the creatures that may be causing it?” 

Tianlong turns the full force of her gaze on him. “We all felt the loss of Boston ring through the void, and others have started to weaken, but I have seen no sign of the culprit. Though my dear brothers Hong have disappeared since the last moon cycle. They have never left their post and yet now the gates stand unguarded. I fear the worst. Seek Temasek in Singapore, he is well connected and will know why Java has gone quiet.” 

They both offer another bow, grateful for the information no matter how disappointing. “Thank you,” John says again, flicking his wings so they disappear. 

“Do not thank me yet Fallen Star, Farsight. The road you are on is a long one, and I cannot see the state you will be in at its end. Stay strong, darkness haunts your steps.” Tianlong twists in a last dazzling display of scales, coils rippling as she ascends the sky, disappearing into the night with a streak of starlight. 

“Well,” Mycroft sighs, watching her trail disperse. The once glowing blooms of the garden have dimmed to nothing, leaving only the fading scent of magnolias. With the dragon gone, the lengthening shadows of the garden seem rife with unknown threat. 

“Yeah,” John murmurs, crossing his arms over his chest as a shiver works up his spine, winter having finally found the garden. 

Mycroft is unsure what to say in response to their newest revelations and so says nothing at all. By mutual agreement they start back for the hotel. The lights of the city go a long way to chasing off the darkness, but they are both skittish of the shadows lingering in every alleyway. 

It is of course when he is starting to feel foolish and lets his shoulders relax, that his senses flair in alarm. They are crossing a small street when something shifts in the shadows. 

John spins around, guns in hand with a flick of his wrists. 

His fingers twitch over the handle of the brolly, spell ready on his lips. With narrowed eyes, Mycroft can just make out the hulking shape in the alley. It’s aura is blood red, oozing with black like a wound. 

“Show yourself,” John snarls, flicking his wings open to cast light on the creature. The angel’s glow reveals muscled flesh, the same dark red of its aura. It’s claws, curved talons like a bear, gouge into the street with each lumbering step. 

Done by the lovely [Tartha](http://tartha.tumblr.com)

The creature somewhat resembles the foo dog statues Mycroft has seen guarding local temples. The shape of the head, the curl of the fangs, and the lion-like mane are all familiar, but this creature has two such heads. It is this strange feature that prompts the memory of Tianlong’s bizarre wording. “Hong?”

The creature laughs, an echoed rumble. “Once, perhaps,” it grins, both mouths lifting in a sickening show of teeth. The four eyes that focus on them are black and empty. 

John lifts his guns, the metal already glinting with charged holy magic. “Why did you leave your post?”

“It was not,” the left head growls. 

“Our post,” the right head finishes. 

“We serve the master,” they echo. 

“Who is that?” Mycroft dares ask. 

“He freed us.”

“So we serve.”

“He offers you mercy.”

“You should be honoured.”

“You have a chance.”

“Turn back.”

“Abandon your mission.” 

“Or face a fate far worse than death,” they finish as one. With a howl that scrapes across the senses, the creature is gone in a curl of dark smoke. 

John’s grip tightens on his weapons, when his gaze meets Mycroft’s, it is wide with stunned fear. 

Mycroft is slow to relax his grip on the handle, his fingers ache. He takes a deep breath, but it does little to calm the rapid beating of his heart. “We need to call Smith.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Whom the Bell Tolls is going on a short hiatus while I get everything together for the Stucky Big Bang posting on the 18th. I will posting a full 50,000 word story over the course of 4 days, so please check that out in the interim. For Whom the Bell Tolls will come back in September once I get my reserve built back up. Thanks guys.


	14. Singapore

# Chapter Fourteen: Singapore

The Changi airport is like stepping into another world. Where Hong Kong had been built on ancient magicks steeped in tradition. Changi is a modern marvel, all glass panels and marble floors. Magic and technology have been integrated seamlessly. There are elaborate cleaning runes built into the floors while robotic bins follow after patrons like lost puppies. Faerie lights flicker throughout the ceiling with interactive screens dropping down to offer flight information.

John can’t decide where to look, it’s a riot of information, and he finds himself spinning in circles to take everything in. “Whoa.”

“Singaporean Magi have perfected the art of merging magic and technology,” Mycroft comments. 

John stops, turning his attention to Mycroft. He sounds off, his usual teaching tone falling flat. Of course that is hardly a surprise. They had both been struck by the warning in Hong Kong. Neither of them had wanted to leave, but Smith had insisted they follow Tianlong’s advice. 

“We have to evolve with the times, la,” an amused voice comments. 

There is a middle-aged woman standing in front of them. She is dressed in slacks and and a flowing blouse, dark hair, pulled into a loose bun. She has a friendly face, her wide smile highlighted by dimples. Powerful magicks roll off her in waves, and John knows a class 12 when he sees one. 

Mycroft doesn’t seem surprised. “Agent Navamas,” he greets, inclining his head. 

John shoots him a look, because he had no idea they were meeting anyone, but Mycroft ignores it. 

Agent Navamas nods. “Agent Smith gave me your flight information. I set up hotel for you. Temasek can appear in any body of water around the island, but he likes the Marina Bay Sands area.”

“That is quite helpful, thank you,” Mycroft says. He’s using his public voice, the stoic politeness that John hasn’t heard in awhile. “Do you have a vehicle?”

“No,” she laughs, “we take train, la.” 

John has only been on the London Underground a few times, but it was nothing like the station Navamas leads them to. The station is bright and clean, and some clever magic has made it smell like fresh rain and spring growth. The train is spotless, and while the station is busy, there is no rude crush of people rushing in and out. Though John is amused to find a similar voice telling them to ‘mind the gap’. 

They take the EW line to Raffles Place, the stairs lead up to a glass pyramid that takes them onto a greenway surrounded by massive buildings. “Whoa,” John finds himself saying again, looking up at the mass of looming buildings. 

Mycroft appears unmoved, only asking, “Are we near the Marina Sands?” 

Navamas shakes her head. “No, no, but I can not leave you without some proper Sing food.” 

“That won’t be necessary.” 

“Nonsense,” Navamas waves him off, and marches out like a women on a mission. They follow. 

The crush of modern buildings rapidly shrinks to more traditional buildings. The air starts to smell of spices with a hint of fish. John watches as the glass and steel morphs to bright splashes of reds and yellows. 

“This is Chinatown,” Navamas tells them, “but you have not had proper Sing food until you have eaten at a hawker stand, la. The one here is very good.” She leads them to a building that looks rather nondescript on the outside but the inside is stall after tiny stall of food. It is a maze of food, filling the air with spices. 

John licks his lips, his stomach announcing itself with a large grumble. “This is awesome,” he grins. 

Navamas leads them to one of the many tables filling the floor space. “Sit, sit. I bring you a proper feast.” 

Mycroft looks appalled, glancing from the stained table to the fat pigeons waddling between the chairs. He opens his mouth, looking ready to protest, but politeness forces him to shut his mouth and take a seat. 

John has to stifle a laugh. 

Navamas comes back carrying a tray laden with food and another tray floating effortlessly behind her. 

“How many people are we feeding?” John laughs when she places the trays down. 

“You both need to eat more,” Navamas scolds like they are errant children. “All skin and bones. You have to feed your magicks.” She places a bowl in front of each of them. It is filled with noodles, topped with shrimp and boiled eggs. The broth is tinted red, with droplets of oil floating on top. 

A plate is placed between them, filled with what John is pretty sure is crab, but it is absolutely covered in a bright red sauce that smells of garlic and chili. Another, smaller, plate is placed beside that, this one filled with rolls. 

The last plate contains sliced chicken breast on a pile of white rice with a side of cucumber and a tiny bowl of sauce. 

Navamas seems amused at their stunned looks. “Laksa,” she says, pointing at the noodles. “Chili crab and montou bread, it soaks up the sauce, and you must try Singaporean chicken rice.” 

John digs right in, taking a huge bite of the Laksa, slurping up the noodles and leaving a stain of red across his cheeks. It’s a little spicy, a little salty, and a hint of something he can’t quite name. He wipes his cheeks with a blush, but Navamas just looks pleased. She shows him how to crack the crab and the best way to pull out the meat. The chili sauce is actually more sweet than spicy, and he mops up huge globs of it with the bread. The bread is actually plain fried dough, it’s sole purpose to be a carrier for the sauce. 

Compared to everything else, the chicken is oddly bland, but he likes it dipped in the soy sauce and the freshness of the cucumber pairs nicely. John has taken a taste of everything before he notices that Mycroft is just staring blankly at the food. 

“Come on,” John nudges him with his elbow. 

Mycroft glares at him, mask cracking. 

John glares right back. 

Mycroft finally concedes. Taking up chopsticks in one hand and a spoon in the other. He eats the laksa fastidiously, wrapping the noodles in the chopsticks and balancing them on the spoon. It’s ridiculous, but he seems to enjoy the soup, or at least he finishes the bowl. He’s even more reluctant about trying the crab, but John convinces him to at least dip the bread in the sauce. Mycroft eats with the bread held delicately between two fingers. 

Luckily, Agent Navamas doesn’t look offended. She just smiles at Mycroft, looking amused. 

Once they are finished and stuffed to bursting. They walk back to Raffles Place station to grab the NS line to Marina Bay. The train is less busy, so John slumps into one of the side chairs. “I don’t think I can eat again for a week,” he complains, rubbing at his stomach. 

“That was certainly an experience,” Mycroft agrees, taking the seat next to John. 

Navamas laughs. “Go get some sleep. Temasek usually appears in the morning. I’ll meet you in the lobby at 0800, la.” 

“Thank you, that will be perfect,” Mycroft agrees. 

“Is your base near Marina Bay?” John asks. 

“It is a small island,” Navamas says, smoothly avoiding the question. 

The intercom starts to announce the next station, catching their attention, when the train slams to a stop. The sudden movement sends people tumbling down the aisle and out of seats. John knocks his head against the pole he had been leaning against. 

The lights flicker and short, dropping them in darkness. There is a scream somewhere down the line. John stands, grabbing at the handrail overhead to steady himself. He pulls his wings into existence with a flap. The white and gold feathers illuminating the car in warm light. “You guys okay?”

“Fine,” Mycroft answers, standing at John’s side. 

“Ouch,” Navamas grumbles. She’s sprawled on the floor, but pulls herself back up without issue. “I am well, but that wasn’t a train malfunction.” 

“Trolls?” John asks. They have trouble with them in London sometimes, the underground mythos wreaking havoc with the wiring. 

“No the rails are warded, but the Khatib station was attacked last week. No one was injured, but they had to replace the train,” Navamas says, flicking her fingers until a green glow-globe appears in her palm. “Check the rear of the train, I’ll take the front. Be careful,” she orders before heading up the car. 

John watches until the green light is just a flicker in the distance before turning back to Mycroft. “Are you ready?” he asks, thinking of Ireland. It hasn’t been that long really, but it feels like ages. 

Clearly remembering the same thing, Mycroft’s lips quirk in the hint of a smile. “No.” 

They make their way down the train slowly. John takes the lead, Witness at the ready. The passengers are surprisingly patient, sitting and waiting after helping those that had fallen. Glow-globes in a rainbow of colors fill the cars, casting the floor in a strange twist of light. 

The passengers give them curious looks, but stay out of their way. Everyone knows that angels either mean government or military. A few offer their thanks as they make their way towards the back of the train. 

They are at the second to last car when someone comes running up the car. “Demon,” they shout. A group of people that slam into them, hardly pausing as they shove their way through. Some even jumping on the seats and running along the side. 

John throws himself against the opposite wall to let them pass, twisting his primaries painfully as they shove against the windows. “A demon, here?” John asks, when they’ve passed. 

“It’s possible,” Mycroft leans out to look further down the car. It is shrouded in shadows, no glow-globes to light the way. “There have been increased reports of rogue summonings. Do you sense anything?” 

John narrows his eyes, switching his vision over to look deeper into the darkness. There is something in the distance, a shimmer of seething rage. “It’s not a demon,” John says, “not exactly anyways.” Demon’s have a feel to them like ice on the spine. This is different, but just as dark and just as dangerous. “Can you tell?” 

He feels the shift of Mycroft’s magic, his aura drawing close with focus. “It’s angry. Furious. There is a feel of something wild, but it’s wrapped in the scent of the city. Like steel and…” he pauses, face twisting in confusion, “steel and popcorn?”

“Popcorn? Really?” 

Mycroft shrugs, gaze still fixed out into the dark. “Yes, popcorn. Salt and sugar all tied with steel like a cage. I should have brought the brolly,” he murmurs, clenching his fingers. They had sent their luggage ahead to the hotel. John touches his pocket, feeling the shape of the healing stones he is now very grateful to be carrying. 

The final car gives a horrible screech of tearing metal. They share a glance, and as one, head into the fray. 

The back door has been ripped out, jagged claws of metal curling sharply into the car. Sparks of live wires shoot through the darkness, sending flashes that illuminate the hulking shadow prowling into the train. 

John lifts his wings until they brush the top of the car. In the golden glow, the beast comes into focus. Once, the creature may have been a tiger, but it is no longer. It’s massive, spine twisted up and lined with spikes. Its paws are the size of dinner plates, claws gouging into the floor with a mind-scraping noise. “Angel,” it hisses, fangs dripping.

John has to support his gun as he lifts it into position. His arm is shaking. “Who are you?”

Mycroft steps up to his side, hands forming rapid fire rune shapes, something complicated that John can’t identify. 

“I am rage,” it snarls, clawing forward with a sound like breaking bones. Its tongue flicks out, lapping gore from its fur. “Hate,” with each step the creature seems to twist on itself, legs lengthening, jaw reforming. Its tail flicks in the air behind it, almost playfully. “Hunger” it hisses, rising to a snarl just as the beast leaps.

John leans back even as he fires. The shots fly true, but the bullets disperse in flares of golden light a full meter from the target. John can feel its sour breath on his face the moment before Mycroft acts. 

There is a loud boom from a concussive rune, violet light slamming into the beast and sending it into the side of the car. The train rocks with the force of the hit, windows shattering in a spray of glass. 

It laughs, a deep, raspy noise that makes John’s hair stand on end. Bones snap and grate as the creature slinks down from the chairs. It’s back legs are twisted at a grotesque angle. Patches of white and black fur fall to the floor, revealing the writhing flesh beneath. 

“You hunt death as a cub chases its tail, with no thought of what to do if you catch it.” Placing a paw on either side of the train seats, the creature heaves itself up, claws scraping. 

Mycroft doesn’t wait for it to make a move. John feels as he shapes the spell this time, and adds his own power to it. The fire rune bursts in front of the tiger, roaring to life in amaranthine flames lined in gold. 

The beast lifts up causing the chairs to creek. It looms over the flames, massive chest dipping into the blaze. Sparks dart away from it, the inferno hitting a wall and flickering off. It grins, “I am protected.” 

Wide-eyed, Mycroft constructs a shield just as the creature crashes back to the floor, claws lashing out. The talons scrape across the shield with a piercing screech, sending up sparks. 

There is a shout, a language he doesn’t recognize, before a spell barrels through the car. Verdant spellcraft knocks into the ceiling before jamming straight down, shoving the monster into the floor and the flames. The fire flares back to life, licking across the tiger’s protection. It must find a chink in the armor because the beast howls, roaring in rage and pain. 

“อสุภ,” Agent Navamas spits, stepping between them. 

“What was that?” John asks. 

She shoots him a grin, “Variant of the concussive spell. Shields that strong are hard to crack but easy to push.” As she speaks, her hands are rapidly forming the spell again. 

Mycroft watches her movements and copies them. Normally trying new spells like that without practice is dangerous, but he knows Mycroft won’t miss a step. John forms the more familiar gestures for the spell. 

The runes ignite as one, blasting into the creature in a blinding light. John has to close his eyes against the glare. When he can open them again, blinking rapidly to chase the spots from his vision, the tiger is gone. 

“Is it dead?” he asks. 

Mycroft and Navamas shake their heads. “It was transported,” Mycroft explains. 

“Transported? That’s a complicated spell. There’s no way that...that thing cast something like that.”

“No,” Mycroft agrees, “It didn’t. It also didn’t produce that shield spell.” 

John looks over at him, at the tension tightening his jaw and shoulders. “You think it’s the Master, don’t you? The one Hong mentioned.” 

“We need to clear out of the train,” Navamas interrupts, “the police should be here now.”

“Was there anything in the front?” Mycroft asks. 

She nods, a scowl darkening her features. “A swarm of Hantu, more annoying than harmful, but it took a number of banishing spells.” 

“Well your timing was perfect,” John praises, folding his wings so they lay tight against his back. 

“Everyone alright back there?” a voice shouts, accompanied by the bright flare of torches. 

“Agent Navamas Security and Intelligence Division. I’m accompanied by two foreign intelligence officers. There is at least one dead passenger, possibly more. Proceed with caution.” 

***

It takes hours to get off the train, even with Agent Navamas guarding them from official questioning. It takes coordination to get everyone off the train and to walk along the track to the Marina Bay station. 

By the time they get to the hotel, John is sweating like mad, his clothes sticking and chafing. He’s pretty sure even his wings are sweating, the feathers clumping uncomfortably. He’s so exhausted that he doesn’t immediately notice the building Navamas is leading them too.

“Wait,” he stops, looking up and up and up, craning his head back until he almost tips over. “Is that a boat?” 

Navamas laughs, her humor only mildly dulled by the day. “Welcome to Marina Bay Sands.” 

“Huh,” John huffs, running his gaze along the massive cruise ship that bizarrely spans the roof of three skyscrapers. He can only stare for a moment, he’s worn out and his wings are too dirty to comfortably fold away. He’s attracting attention. 

Agent Navamas wishes them well in the lobby, needing to head back to the train station. 

John and Mycroft take the elevator up to their floor, collapsing into the room in sweaty exhaustion. Mycroft doesn’t even argue when he takes the first shower. John isn’t sure if that’s because his wings look pathetic or if the mage is just too tired to move. 

“Shower’s yours,” John mumbles once he is finally clean, collapsing onto the bed with a flop. The pillow is blessedly cool, and there is a freezing patch when he slides his hand beneath the pillow to pull it to him. He’s asleep in the next breath. 

***

The next morning, they meet Navamas at the front of the hotel, her usual cheery disposition marred by a deep frown. “Good morning,” she greets, sounding weary. 

“Long night?” 

“Unfortunately,” she nods, “our trackers scoured the stations, but the creature is long gone. We were able to identify its origins, however.”

“What were they?” Mycroft asks, stepping forward. He’s still dressed in slacks and a vest, his only concession to the heat his lack of overcoat. The brolly tucked into the crook of his elbow makes John smile. 

“Two weeks ago, one of the tigers escaped from the zoo. It possessed a strength it should not have been capable of, and butchered it’s fellow tiger in the process. The Sing Magi had been looking into the escape, but it did not become a Division issue until yesterday. Our seers have now reviewed the scene and determined that the tiger became an Ilimu.” 

“An Ilimu?” John asks. The creature sounds vaguely familiar, but he can’t place it. 

“A Mythos created when an animal is possessed by a demon that feeds on anger. Once the Ilimu consumes enough human flesh, it is capable of shifting its shape at will. The more powerful of them are capable of transforming into any creature they consume. The Ilimu we saw was only just beginning its transformation.” 

Mycroft scowled, crossing his arms over his chest in irritation. “Meaning we were right, it could not possibly have cast those spells.”

“What sort of Magi can cast a long distance transportation spell?” John asks, though he suspects he already knows the answer. 

Mycroft’s frown deepens, “none.” 

John was afraid of that. 

They can not linger in their worry. The sun is rising and if Temasek is going to show, it will be soon. They follow along the walking path, heading for the far side of the bay where the merlion statue rests. 

The path is already busy, filled with locals and tourists alike. It makes John nervous to pull his wings out for all to see, but it will help draw Temasek’s attention. He is grateful that no one approaches them, though he can see people pointing and taking pictures. It makes him pull his wings in, folding them so tight it hurts. 

“They don’t matter John,” Mycroft says, leaning in close so that Navamas ahead of them will not hear. “You cannot let their stares affect you. Stand tall.” 

John glances over at Mycroft in his bespoke dress clothes, his severe posture. He looks unaffected by it all, by the attention, even the heat. John relaxes by increments, letting his shoulders fall back, his wings loosening until they rest in a graceful arch. He looks out to the bay, to the sparkling waters and the stunning architecture, and shuts out everything else. 

They make their way slowly around the bay, keeping an eye out for the Singapore guardian. On the far side, a merlion statue stands at the edge of the bay, shooting a stream of water from its stone mouth. There is a group of tourists out front snapping pictures. 

John walks down the steps to the bay, stretching out his left wing until the tips of his primaries brush the water. He can sense something, lurking just out of sight. 

“He’s here,” Mycroft announces. He stops at John’s right side, setting the brolly in front of him. 

John looks back, Navamas is standing next to the statue, seemingly waiting for them to make their move. “I think I can draw his attention,” he turns back to Mycroft. 

Mycroft nods, gaze focused out on the water. He does not form a rune, but John can feel him pulling power from the enchanted wood, ready should the need arise. 

John sends a pulse of holy magic through his wing, into the water. There is no spell attached, only a call. A song for attention with a distinctive angelic tone. He feels a response instantly, a sharp bite of electricity that lingers like copper on his tongue. It doesn’t hurt exactly, more like a chiding flick. 

The water rumbles, bubbling up with agitation, as something massive surges beneath. The guardian shoots to the surface in a frenzied spray. There are shouts behind them, tourists cheering excitedly, the click of camera shutters. The merlion statue does little to capture the awe of Temasek. His scales shimmer in the dawn like pearls, his ivory fur sleek and glinting. Unlike the statue, Temasek has lion forelegs, he rests the great paws on the stairs to heave his body half out of the water. 

“You are quite presumptuous fledgling,” he rumbles. The curved muzzle and long fangs reminds John of the Ilimu, but he finds comfort in the large mane, the mass of white and silver fur, glinting golden in the sun. “Though it is no surprise, your sort have always been entitled.” 

“What, angels?” John asks, feathers fluffing defensively. 

“British,” Temasek drawls, long tongue flicking out between spear-like fangs. 

“Wha-?” John shoots Mycroft a questioning look. 

Mycroft grits his teeth, but quickly smooths out his expression. “Singapore was a colony of the crown until 1963,” he explains. 

“Ah,” John mumbles. 

Temasek huffs, “and of course they teach you nothing. What then, brings an ignorant angel and his contemptuous link to my island?”

Mycroft hesitates, John can practically hear him working through the best way to approach this. “We are here to seek information. Tianlong suggested that you may know what has happened to the Guardian of Java, and who has been targeting Guardians.” 

John thinks the direct route was the right course. Temasek leans forward, the pressure causing his claws to extend. As far as a lion’s face can show emotion, he looks contemplative. “You are hunting the Master?” 

“You know who/what it is?”

He shakes his head, mane sending droplets of water in all directions. “I do not. There have been whispers in the dark, but I have yet to hear the name of the creature that has been absorbing Guardians.” 

“Absorbing them?” Mycroft asks, eyes wide. 

“Java and Cambodia are gone. I felt their loss as if it were my own. Their energies shredded and put to darker purposes. You’ve seen it already, haven’t you? The demon that twisted the tiger and made it hunt my people as prey.” 

John can’t help the fluttering of his wings, half raising them before he gets them under control. “The Ilimu, yes. It was transported somewhere, but they can’t track it.” 

“Nor can I, unfortunately. The beast was transported far from my shores. The Master, this spider, it sits at the center of a web and plays the strings of us all. You, mere children, there is nothing you can do.” Temasek turns his muzzle, leaning over the stairs until he is just shy of touching Agent Navamas. “You are not a child born of my shores, but you are one in heart. Set the call, let the magi hear, war is brewing and the protections must be made.” 

Agent Navamas bows until her brow brushes Temasek’s muzzle. “I will set the call.” 

He gives a pleased rumble, leaning back. His claws retract, paws slipping back into the sea. John knows he is preparing to leave, and cannot help but ask, “That’s it then? You want us to just scurry on home and forget about this creature?” 

Temasek turns the full force of his silvery gaze on John. “There are not many angels that fall to my shores, but I care for them deeply. I cherish the fallen stars that protect this land and its people. Angels are much like Guardians in that way. They live to protect above all else. Humans misuse you, hoarding you away, only to take you out as weapons when the need arises. Yet still you protect. I do not wish to see your wings torn from you, so yes. I ask that you and your link return home, seise this foolishness, before the Master notices and swats you like flies.” 

John feels a great swell of gratitude for the Guardian, for his kind words and his kind gaze, but cannot bow to his wishes. He lifts his wings, unfurling them in an arching display above his head. “I am sorry, but as you said, I am a protector.” 

Temasek sighs, a rush of air that ruffles John’s feathers. The Guardian closes his eyes, looking weary. “Very well fledgling. May you be triumphant.” He lifts out of the water in a grand arch, tail splashing as he dives beneath the surface, gone. 

John stares out at the bay for a long time. There is a knot in his chest, squeezing and painful. Mycroft stays at his side, silent, waiting. 

It is Agent Navamas that breaks the silence. “I must leave you now, I’m sorry. The call must be set.” 

“I understand,” Mycroft says turning to face her. “Thank you for your hospitality.” 

“I am sorry that the trip did not produce the information you were looking for. May your search be fruitful, la.” She gives a small wave to both of them, before turning and leaving, cutting a swath through the tourists that had gathered during the chat. Surprisingly, they don’t move any closer to the statue, as if John and Mycroft have an area of protection around them. 

“That was a waste of time. We didn’t learn anything new.” John growls, irritated as they make the long walk back to the hotel. 

“We seem to always be a step behind, it is vexing,” Mycroft agrees. “MI6 wanted an All-Seeing Eye, I think it is time I prove my title. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I’m going to induce a vision.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a nice long chapter to make up for the short hiatus, but at least the Stucky Big Bang is done and posted. 
> 
> A few notes on this chapter. So I did a study abroad in Singapore a few years ago for pan-asian cuisine, and I just could not write this chapter without dragging Mycroft to a Hawker stall. All of the places listed in this chapter are real places that I have visited. It is an amazing country with wonderful people. Agent Navamas is actually based on a real person that I met in Singapore, but she is actually from Thailand, which is the purpose for some of the things she says and what Temasek says to her. Also, the addition of 'la' to her speech is actually a habit I noticed in a lot of the Singaporeans I worked with. 
> 
> One more note, from a comment I got on Tumblr. I know in the story that it was mentioned that all angels have blond hair and blue eyes, the original purpose for this was a plot point that I ended up dropping further in the writing process, but the commenter was upset by the prospect that this made all angels white, and I want to assure everyone that that is not the case. In fact, Uriel, one of the angels introduced with John, has more Egyptian coloring. Which, going back to read what I wrote, was never mentioned, so that is completely my fault, but I wanted to assure everyone that angels in this story come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Thank you.


	15. The Bonding in Cornwall

# Chapter Fifteen: The Bonding in Cornwall

Lestrade stares at the scene before him, baffled. “Why are we here again?”

Sally sighs, clearly exasperated. He may have asked that question more than once. “The crime was committed by a mythos, that makes it a MET case.” 

He glances at the scene and back. 

She sighs again, rolling her eyes. “Okay, I admit, this is a weird one.” 

“Weird,” Lestrade laughs, “That’s one word for it.” 

They are standing in the middle of a Tesco Express. The clerk is being helped off the wall from where he been stuck with some sort of gelatinous substance that Lestrade has zero interest in identifying. 

The shelves have been tumbled over, a mess of cans and torn boxes. Flour coats every available surface, while blobs of… goo stick here and there. “So was anything taken or did goblins just stage a riot for shits and giggles?” Lestrade asks, carefully stepping over an upturned shelf. His phone gives a text alert, but he ignores it. 

“They are still taking inventory, but at least 12 lbs of sugar, 20 jars of honey, 18 liters of cream, 15 canisters of salt, and 1 box of PG tips is missing,” Sally lists off, flipping through her notes. 

“Just the one box?” he raises a dubious brow. 

Sally glares. “I imagine that the tea is just bad inventory, but it was on my list.” 

“Alright, alright,” Lestrade holds up his hands, “maybe they just wanted a cuppa.” He leans closer to get a look at the goo on one of the shelves because no matter how much he doesn’t want to, it is part of his job. The stuff smells like manure with the consistency of snot. “Oh, that’s rank,” he snorts, rearing back and rubbing his offended nose. “Well most of that list makes sense, goblins are just another member of the fae, but what’s with the salt? Fae hate salt.”

“Well,” Sally looks askance at the mucus,” judging by the projectiles, they were high level goblins. They could have handled the salt while it was still in the packaging, especially if they contained it first.” 

“Contained it?” 

She gestures at the goo. 

“Oh ew,” Lestrade wrinkles his nose, “I hate goblins.” 

“Don’t be elitist,” Sally teases. 

Lestrade huffs. If one was to rank mythos in terms of power, angels are up at the top, sitting just below Guardians. Hell, archangels on their final ascensions are even said to be able to match them, but Lestrade is a mere dominion in constant molt, so he has no room to judge. He’s distracted when his phone gives another text alert and then another. 

“You can get that. I’ll handle this,” Sally says, waving him off. 

“Thanks.” Lestrade heads out of the store, stepping carefully over the mess. His phone reveals 10 missed texts from an unknown number. “Huh,” he clicks on his messages, pulling up the list. 

_Lestrade. -SH_

_Lestrade. -SH_

_Lestrade. -SH_

_This is Sherlock. -SH_

_Which should be obvious if you could read. -SH_

_Come at once is convenient. -SH_

_If inconvenient come anyways. -SH_

_Lestrade. -SH_

_Lestrade, this is an emergency. -SH_

_Lestrade, please. -SH_

“Oh, shit,” Lestrade fumbles with his phone pressing call as he slides into the car. The line rings and rings and rings. It clicks off and another text alert sounds. 

_I prefer to text. -SH_

His fingers fly over the screen. _You answer your goddamn phone Sherlock!_ He sends before clicking call again. The call rings twice before he finally picks up. 

“You know if I had been hiding from assailants, your constant calling would have gotten me killed,” Sherlock snaps. 

Lestrade breathes a sigh of relief, he’s fine. “Well since you should be in Cornwall, I highly doubt you are facing off against any assailants. Of course knowing you, I wouldn’t be surprised if you incensed your neighbors to take up arms.” 

“I said if,” Sherlock sniffs, offended. 

“MmHmm,” Lestrade hums, biting back a laugh. “Alright, what’s the emergency then?” 

“I need…” there is a long pause over the phone before Sherlock admits, “your assistance.” 

“My assistance? What did you get involved in now that you need police assistance?” It has been over a month since Lestrade sent Sherlock back to Cornwall. He can’t even begin to guess what the teen managed to get tied up with in that time. 

“I don’t need police assistance,” Sherlock huffs, offended. 

Lestrade opens his mouth to ask what the hell he wants then, but closes it with a click. If Sherlock doesn’t need help from the ‘police’ then that means he needs help from Lestrade specifically. That can only mean one thing. “What did you do,” he growls into the reciever, “I can’t heal you, you know.” 

“I don’t need healing, either,” Sherlock snaps. “Will you come to Cornwall or not?” 

Lestrade sighs. He doesn’t have time for this. The MET has been swamped with cases all month; rogue demon summonings, fae coming out of the woodwork, and bizarre runes being spray painted all over town. He’s never been so busy, but Sherlock needs his help. He actually asked for it. Lestrade feels a sharp pain beneath his breastbone, an insistent tugging. “Alright,” he mutters, “I’ll be there by tonight.” 

“Excellent. I’ll text you the address,” Sherlock hangs up without further ado. 

Lestrade looks at his phone for a long time. “Fuck. Sally’s gonna kill me.” 

***

The drive to Cornwall is a long one, made even longer when he gets stuck in the endless London traffic. Finally, after sun has long set, he pulls down Sherlock’s street, following his GPS. He’s led to a traditional Cornwall home; old, two-story brick with ivy climbing up the sides. There is a beautiful sun room at the front of the house, large glass windows revealing the rows of plants along the sills. It’s hard to believe that such a normal, if posh, building could be where Sherlock calls home.

He pulls into the driveway, and the moment he leaves the car, three crows land on the roof, cawing angrily at him like the car had always belonged to them and he is trespassing. He rolls his eyes at them, unimpressed by the ruckus, and heads for the door. 

The door opens before he can knock. “Finally!” Sherlock shouts, pulling Lestrade into the house and slamming the door behind him. “We’ve been waiting ages.”

“We?” Lestrade asks, trying to regain his balance, but Sherlock is still pulling him along, right into a richly decorated room that could be either a parlor or a library judging by the bookshelves and fireplace. 

“Sherlock, dear, don’t pull him so,” a matronly voice chides, alerting Lestrade to the other presence in the room. Sitting on the settee against the far wall is an elderly woman with curly red hair. She’s wearing a cardigan over a purple blouse, looking like every Gran Lestrade has ever met. 

“Err, hello,” he greets, feeling rather confused. Who is this woman? Sherlock’s grandmother? His Mum? 

“You must be the angel. Sherlock has told me so much about you dear, it feels like we have already met. Your poor hair though, Love, you’ve put yourself in quite the state,” she says, completely ignoring his horrible greeting. 

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock interrupts, answering some of Lestrade’s questions with his address. 

Lestrade waits for a proper introduction, but Sherlock flops into one of the other armchairs, giving him a stare that implies Lestrade should get on with it already. Whatever ‘it’ is. 

“Oh Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson sighs with fond exasperation. She stands, brushing out her skirt. “I’m Martha Hudson dear. I’m Sherlock’s,” she glances at the teen, “well minder I suppose would be the term.” 

Sherlock scowls, but doesn’t argue. 

Lestrade reaches out to shake her offered hand. Stepping closer, he notes that she’s wearing a perfume that smells familiar, soothing, but he can’t quite name it. “And you need my assistance?” he asks, taking a stab in the dark, still wondering why Sherlock would blithely tell his secret. 

“I’m afraid so. Sherlock was kind enough to call you when he deduced the situation. Quite clever isn’t he, with those deductions.”

“Mrs. Hudson, the case,” Sherlock interrupts again, though there is a blush staining his cheeks. 

Lestrade hides a laugh behind a cough. 

Sherlock glares. “What Mrs. Hudson is failing to say is that she is a bonded fae. She no longer wishes to be bonded. I need you to break it.” 

“A fae?” Lestrade gives Mrs. Hudson another look. She certainly has a magical aura, but he would guess magi not mythos. 

“Yes, I keep hidden mostly. Sometimes it makes people rather uncomfortable, but Sherlock realized what I was right away,” Mrs. Hudson titters. 

Lestrade narrows his gaze, switching over to the corporeal plane. On the other side, Mrs. Hudson has an aura of white and grey swirling behind her like a cloak. It should be an unnerving color, but only feels that same sense of familiarity and calm. He pulls back into reality with a gasp, “You’re a banshee.” Of course Sherlock’s nanny would be a harbinger of death. 

“I am,” Mrs. Hudson straightens in challenge. 

Lestrade immediately slumps, pulling in his power that had unfurled unconsciously. “Sorry, ma’am.” He rubs the back of his head, “You uh, you needed help with a binding?”

Mrs. Hudson’s fierce expression melts back to a kind smile. “It’s alright,” she waves it off with an ease that explains how she gets along so well with Sherlock. “It was a youthful indiscretion, you understand. He was such a dashing young necromancer, my Frank. When he asked if I would bond with him, I was rather swept away, but he abused the bond. Frank was always a bit of an entrepreneur.”

Sherlock snorts, sitting up from his sprawl. “He used the boost you gave his powers to move drugs by animating corpses.”

“Yes, well.” 

“What kind of bond was it?” Lestrade asks before this strange story can get any further out of hand. 

“I was quite young. Very silly, really,” Mrs. Hudson flushes. 

“I understand,” Lestrade soothes, “we all do foolish things in youth.” 

“It was a bond in blood. Honeyed cream and his blood.” 

It’s a standard enough bond with fae, though still a strong one. Any bond made in blood is going to be hard to break. He understands now why Sherlock would seek his help. These sort of bonds have to be handled delicately. 

“If you don’t mind, I would like to take a closer look at it before I try and break it.” Lestrade takes a seat, scooting the chair forward for a better position. 

“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Hudson takes a deep breath, looking nervous but determined. 

Lestrade has to lean forward to pull his wings out, letting them lay along the sides of the chair, the primaries curving uncomfortably along the floor. He avoids looking at them, he still hasn’t taken the time to groom them, but he needs them out to better channel his magicks. “It’s alright, just sit still for me, please,” Lestrade sooths.

He takes few deep breaths, before slipping back into the corporeal plane, but this time he goes deeper, searching. He hears a muffled gasp, but sound cuts out as he slips into the trance. He finds the bond easily enough. With it being unwanted, the bond has gotten dark and thorny, curving around Mrs. Hudson’s neck like a noose. The color of it is a sickly green and red like an infection, it makes him sick just to look at it.

Pulling back into reality hurts, pain lancing through his temple in a backlash. He has to scrunch his eyes closed, tears leaking out in a trail down his cheeks. 

“Oh no, are you alright dear?” Mrs. Hudson worries, he can feel her at his side, still attuned to her unique aura. There is still that air of familiar comfort about her. He takes a deep breath before opening his eyes again. 

Sherlock is watching him, still in his seat, but now he is leaning forward, fingers beneath his chin in a speculative look. “Your eyes flashed gold.” 

“Huh,” Lestrade mutters, wiping the tears from his eyes. He’s never seen himself in a trance, obviously, but he isn’t surprised. With as much power as he is channeling, it makes sense that it would come out through the source of the focus. 

“Is everything alright?” Mrs. Hudson asks, returning to her chair. 

“Err,” Lestrade looks off to the side. “I can break the bond, but it’s been there too long. It’s in too deep. Once removed, it will leave a gaping wound that will fester and eventually kill you. The only other option is to replace the bond with another one.”

“What?” Sherlock snarls. “That is unacceptable. We cannot replace one bond for another, that defeats the point.” 

“It is Mrs. Hudson’s choice,” Lestrade says flatly, turning his gaze back to the fae. 

Mrs. Hudson looks down at her clasped hands for a long time. “I don’t suppose,” she hesitates, “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in the bond Sherlock dear. A protection bond can be quite useful.” 

Lestrade is both surprised and not. Bonds are not something to consider idly. They require a great deal of trust, but with as much as he clashes with Sherlock, he knows the teen would not misuse that trust. 

Sherlock is clearly stunned. He stares wide-eyed at Mrs. Hudson, mouth open in slack-jawed amazement. “You would, we could...I’m sure there is a more suitable bondmate.” 

Her smile is endlessly kind. “Oh Sherlock, I trust you.” 

He blushes brightly, looking away. 

“I can do it now,” Lestrade offers, “but once the bond is broken the new bond must be put into place immediately.” 

After another long silence Sherlock asks, “You are certain?” 

“I am,” Mrs. Hudson says without hesitation. 

Sherlock gives Mrs. Hudson a long look, before nodding. “Alright,” he turns to Lestrade, “do it.”

“I’ll need some honey and cream.”

Mrs. Hudson brings in the honey and cream, and Lestrade instructs them to each prepare a cup before trading. For a protection bond, luckily, no blood is required. 

“If you are ready, I’ll purify the bond and reset it.” Lestrade says, once they’ve drunk their honeyed cream. 

“Get on with it then,” Sherlock huffs, but Lestrade can tell he’s nervous.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lestrade gestures for him to sit back down. “You don’t have to do anything, just sit still.” 

“Thank you again for doing this dear,” Mrs. Hudson murmurs. 

“It’s my pleasure.” And it truly is. Lestrade has had little use for his more angelic skills with the MET. He’s been acting like a mage for years, being able to really stretch his wings is a blessing. Speaking of, he spreads his wings, stretching them until they touch the walls. Golden light edges the feathers as he focuses slipping back into the corporeal plain to focus on the bond. 

The sickly thing cringes from him, shriveling in the glow of pure holy magic. Lestrade reaches out and carefully tugs the noose around Mrs. Hudson’s neck. The bond screams at his touch, flaring out in thorns that sting his palm. “I don’t think so,” he grins, pulling his athame into his free hand. The enchanted steel severs the bond with ease, turning the sickly shade into a dull grey. 

With the noose gone, he can safely pull the bond, stretching it when he turns to face Sherlock. In the corporeal plane, the young mage has an impressive aura, shades of blue encasing his body in flames. His aura strikes out at first, the flames flaring up protectively as Lestrade approaches, but like a skittish dog, they settle back down after a moment of posturing. 

He situates the bond over the patch of dark blue protecting Sherlock’s heart. He pushes the bond into place with care, giving the magicks time to adjust. Sherlock’s aura flickers over the bond, but just as the edges start to merge, the bond splutters. Sherlock’s aura flares, forcing it away with angry sparks. 

Lestrade tries again, coaxing some of his aura into the bond to strengthen it, but this makes the bond even more volatile. The cord being thrown away with a flare of aura bright enough to blind. 

Lestrade flicks back to reality with a gasp. 

“What happened? What was that?” Sherlock growls. He has his hands over his heart, clenching at the material of his shirt. 

“I don’t know,” Lestrade huffs, breathing hard. He can still feeling the bond in his grasp, it’s dying, and with it, Mrs. Hudson. He can’t bond it to himself, some mythos can form bonds with one another, but angels are built to form only one bond in their lifetime. He has to think fast, for some reason Sherlock can’t take the bond, but there is no one else. He can feel her dying and it’s his fault. 

He closes his eyes and tries to think. There is no one else to bond to in this great big house and it isn’t like he can bond her to...His thoughts stutter to a stop. “Holmes!” he shouts. 

“Detective?” Mrs. Hudson calls, looking worried, despite her greying appearance, and the strain clear on her face. 

“I can’t bond you to Sherlock, I’m not sure why, it just won’t take, but I may be able to bond you to the Holmes name. Banshee use to protect certain families in Ireland many years ago correct?” 

Mrs. Hudson's brow furrows. “Well, yes, but that is a difficult bond to make, and you don’t have the head of the household here.” 

“I can do it,” Lestrade tightens his grip on the bond dying in his hand. “I can do it.” 

“Then do it, and quick,” Sherlock orders. His eyes are still wide, pain written at the edges, but his overall expression is fear for Mrs. Hudson. 

“Don’t move,” Lestrade orders and slips back under. Affixing a bond to a family name usually requires the head of the household and a ceremony, but Lestrade can force it if he pushes enough power into it. 

He turns back to Sherlock, and as he does, pulls his wings into the corporeal plane with him. He lashes out with one wing, stabbing the primaries directly through the center of Sherlock’s aura. It has to hurt, he knows, but there is no other way. 

With his wing separating the bulk of the fiery aura, he can get to the center of Sherlock’s bonds. His center is weirdly shadowed, part of it hidden in darkness. He wants to poke at it, but he senses no malevolence and there is no time. He is surprised to only find two bonds in the familia circle, Sherlock’s blue bonded with an crystalline violet that Lestrade immediately knows belongs to Mycroft. 

He plants the bond at the joint of the two, feeding the singed edges carefully into the circle. The bond shivers, fighting. “No,” Lestrade snarls and pours himself into the bond, filling the corporeal plain with golden light. 

He can feel the weakening of his powers, but he doesn’t stop. The family bond flares to attention, the violet bond reacting, and as head of the household, finally accepting the bond. The dull grey sparks to a deep indigo, highlighted with blushes of affectionate pink. 

“It took,” he whispers, pulling back. He sees Mrs. Hudson give him a watery smile full of relief before he passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As soon as I started sketching the image for this chapter I just kept asking myself what the hell I was doing. Came out pretty well in the end though.


	16. Belladonna and Hemlock

# Chapter Sixteen: Belladonna and Hemlock

Sherlock stands outside of the guest bedroom and watches Mrs. Hudson fuss. She’s fluttering around the detective laid on the bed. The man is sprawled on his stomach, wings half-extended and hanging off the edge.

Sherlock would have been happy leaving him on the settee, but Mrs. Hudson had complained, saying he couldn’t rest his wings properly. He’ll never admit it, but she was right. Lestrade’s wings are already in disarray, they would not have handled the tight folding well. 

He wants to fix the ruffled feathers, maneuver them into their proper place, but he remembers Lestrade’s flinch and resists the urge. Instead, he spins on his heel and leaves Mrs. Hudson to it. 

He closes his bedroom door behind him, barely restraining himself from slamming it, but he does allow a dramatic flop onto the bed. His mind whirs, and he cannot silence his thoughts. 

Why? 

Why did the bond not take? 

Lestrade had looked surprised, he certainly expected the bond to take or he would not have suggested it. 

The problem was not with Mrs. Hudson or the corrupted bond. It had taken when attached to the Holmes family. The problem must be on his end. The problem must be him. 

Sherlock sits up and snatches his violin off the side table. He scrapes the bow across the strings viciously. The instrument gives a screech of protest. He runs the bow over the strings again and again, moving too fast and too hard. The noise is horrible, a perfect reflection of his mental state. He forces himself to stop before he damages the Strad. Curling the abused wood in his arms in apology. 

There is magic in the wood, as there is in all Stradivarius instruments, and it reaches out to him now in response, a haunting tone all of it’s own. He runs his fingers over the smooth wood, leaving impressions of his own magic behind. It is a soothing ritual. 

If the problem is with him, he needs to research. He needs facts. Sherlock places the violin down, careful this time, and heads for the computer. 

It becomes rapidly apparent that research is unhelpful and frustrating. There is only speculation on the subject of bonding with very little empirical data to back it up. What little research has been done, only concerns the various types of bonds and how each individual responds differently based on a number of variables. The last site he reads claims that individuals with psychopathic and sociopathic tendencies lack the ability to form bonds. 

Sherlock throws the mouse at the wall. 

He returns to his bed, even more frustrated. He needs answers and second hand research isn’t an option. That leaves personal experience. He needs to see his aura. 

The problem is, while Sherlock can see the auras of others, he’s never been able to see his own, few mages can- Mycroft, the smug bastard, being an exception. There are spells to increase his sensitivity, but the easiest, most effective, and dangerous method is a potion. He needs the lab. 

His parents had been avid practitioners, always researching new spellcraft and alchemy. They had converted the sunroom at the front of the house into a lab for this purpose. The wall to wall windows illuminate the space, bringing life to the various plants filling the room. 

Under each window is a built-in desk. The space is a mess of test tubes, papers, and tools. It has remained largely untouched since his parent’s deaths. He knows Mycroft removed some of the more volatile chemicals, but even he couldn’t stand to clean it. 

Sherlock takes the pair of snips from one desk and pulls down the plants he needs. The scent of the fresh cut blooms brings back memories. He recalls many afternoons as a boy, his father lifting him up so he could see over the counter. He had learned each plant and their uses at his father’s knee. 

Mummy had worked alongside them, always smelling like leather from her projects. While father taught him alchemy, mummy would be there to explain the rune work to go along with it. Fresh cut greenery and leather, the scent of his childhood. 

He shoves the memories to the back of his mind palace, furious at his distraction. He moves quickly to gather the fresh and dried ingredients of the potion before retreating back to him room, unwilling to stay a moment longer in the lab. 

The desk in his room works just as well for this particular potion. He has a series of different sized mortars that will work perfectly. He pulls out the medium sized one, the marble scraping across the desk. 

The scale is more delicate. He pulls it down from the shelf with care, before picking up his set of calibrated weights. They gleam in their padded box, each steel cylinder etched with their weight along the top edge.

Sherlock pulls on a pair of nitrile gloves before setting up the scales. It is careful work to measure out the ingredients. The mix of dried and fresh herbs needs to be in a perfect ratio or he risks serious injury.

He starts with the dry ingredients. Pounding them into a fine powder with the pestle, careful not to let anything spill from the bowl. Once powdered, he adds the fresh blooms and works them into the mixture. The added moisture from the fresh cut flowers helps to work the mixture into a thick paste. 

With the paste at the right consistency, he takes down his alchemist’s kit and flicks open the compartment hidden in the back of the polished chest. Inside are two small bottles with pipette stoppers. 

The first bottle contains a concentrated belladonna tincture, a single drop would cause tachycardia, convulsions, hallucinations, and, finally, death. He adds 3 measured drops to the paste. 

The second bottle contains concentrated hemlock, a single drop capable of causing paralysis, coma, and eventually death. He adds 6 drops. 

The entire contents of the bowl are mixed before being placed in a 500ml graduated cylinder. The paste comes exactly to the 100 ml mark, perfect. He measures out 400 ml of 0.9% saline solution and adds it to the paste. With a glass stirring rod, he stirs the solution 15 times before setting the timer for 1 hour. 

He spends the hour attempting to read a treatise on fae bonds, but is too wired to give it any proper attention. When the timer finally goes off, he pounces on it. The solution has now taken on a color reminiscent of muddy grass. 

He sets up a beaker topped with a funnel and filter paper, and begins to slowly pour in the potion. This process takes time, waiting for the solution to filter drip by drip. It also takes a great deal of care, because as he pours the solution in one hand, the other is forming the rune work to activate the potion. His fingers move in complicate sigils, lighting with flashes of blue while he mutters the Greek invocation. 

When the final drop falls, the muddy solution sparks, flaring with green light and developing an oil slick sheen along the top. It makes his room smell like fresh cut roses. 

“Excellent,” Sherlock grins, pulling a sterile pipette from the collection in his drawer. He returns to his bed with the pipette and the beaker, placing the container on his nightstand. He’s never used this potion before, but his reading has indicated that it is best used while sitting. 

He pulls open the pipette and siphons out 100 μL. Sherlock tilts his head back, pulling down on his lower eyelid. He drops one drop in the left eye and one in the right. The potion stings, forcing him to scrunch his eyes closed in pain. Tears leak out at the edges and he can feel them running down his cheeks.

The pain doesn’t subside, if anything, it gets worse, but he forces himself to open his eyes anyways. The potion leaves that same oil slick sheen over his vision. Everything looks distorted, cast in strange colors. The edges of the world are blurred. 

He can see sparks of power on his desk, hints of color from the potion making and other enchanted objects. His violin glows a fiery orange, streaked through with hints of navy. A flash at the corner of his eye, draws his attention to his chest. Peering down, his body is obscured in flares of cerulean and sapphire, splashes of silver flashing along the edges. 

It is oddly beautiful, his aura. Sherlock is not sure what he expected, but it was not this display of blue flame. There is a spark of something where the flames are the thickest, right in front of his heart. He narrows his eyes, bringing a sharp pain, which he ignores. The shadowed area, a deep-dark blue like the night sky, seems to thicken under his gaze, but gives way after some prodding. 

It feels like looking under his own ribcage. The pulsing beat of his aura as steady and lifegiving as the organ it mimics. He can hold it in his hands, feel the delicate balance beneath his palms. He pulls it up even as he leans down to peer closer at the… the something that grabbed his attention. There is a single pinprick of light in the densest part of his soul, something both foreign and familiar. 

The light gleams gold, like sunlight on steel. He’s drawn in, peering closer and closer at the speck until his eyes burn. Tears stream down his face, but he feels like if he could just get a little closer, see a little more, than he could find his answers. 

The gold flares suddenly, overtaking his vision in searing pain. He screams, shutting his eyes against the assault and throwing his body face first into the bed as if he could ever hide from something within his very soul. 

Everything goes dark, and he is grateful for it. 

***

There is shouting and it hurts. Someone slaps him about the face and it hurts even more. 

He groans turning away from the pain. His body can’t seem to offer any further movement, however. His limbs feel weighed down and he can’t open his eyes. 

“Did it work?” It takes Sherlock a moment to place the voice as Lestrade’s. 

“Yes, not fully, though. He’ll have to finish that bit on his own time.” This time Sherlock is immediately aware of Mrs. Hudson’s voice. She sounds tired and concerned. 

He turns his head to try and get a look at them, but his eyes are still heavy, leaving him in darkness. “What…” he tries to ask, but his throat is dry, words coming out in a painful weeze. 

“You were a bloody idiot it what you were,” Lestrade snarls, sounding furious. He hadn’t even sounded that angry when Sherlock had made the stupid comment at Van Coon’s. He can hear the rustle of feathers and can just imagine Lestrade’s stance. “You put bloody poison in your eyes! What were you thinking?”

“I needed,” Sherlock has to cough a few times, slowly adjusting, “to know.” 

“To know what, you bloody tosser?”

Sherlock isn’t sure what makes him say it, but in a whisper he answers,” I had to know what’s wrong with me.” There is a sudden breeze against his face, the stirring of Lestrade’s wings, a mark of his surprise. 

Mrs. Hudson sighs, “Oh Sherlock.” 

“There is nothing wrong with you except for your inconsideration with your own health,” Lestrade says, the bite to his words softened with affection. 

Sherlock needs to see him, needs to gauge Lestrade’s sincerity, but his eyes just won’t cooperate. “Why can’t I open my eyes,” Sherlock snarls, frustrated enough to ignore the burn in his throat. 

“Sherlock,” Lestrade starts, hesitant, “they are open.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter brought out the medical lab tech in me.


	17. Alone

# Chapter Seventeen: Alone

There are shadows in the distance, hulking figures with burning coal eyes.

He tries to craft a spell, but he can’t move his hands, throat paralyzed. He can only turn and run. The darkness stretches before him, never changing. He runs and goes nowhere. 

He can feel breath on his neck, the scratch of fangs at his nape. He spins, lashing out with the brolly that had not been there before. There is nothing behind him. 

He turns in a slow circle, brolly held out like a saber. He stops at a light breaking through the shadows. Wings. White and gold wings fill the air, feathers spread wide and proud. 

There is warmth in his chest, comfort. A sense of security. He’s safe, but no, the feathers twist, curling inwards. Gold turns to rust, white bleeds black. The brilliant wings burst in unholy light, feathers exploding in all directions. 

He looks down at the primary that lands at his feet. He picks up the large feather, watching as black seeps down the quill. It dissolves in his hand, crumbling to dust. 

Mycroft wakes with a gasp. He’s halfway out of bed, spell on his lips, before he realizes where he is. He has to take a few deep breaths to calm the magic simmering just beneath the surface, ready to lash out. It doesn’t help. He stumbles out of bed, knocking against the bathroom door before falling to his knees. The meager contents of his stomach emptied into the toilet. 

He feels hot all over, sweat rolling down his brow. He hauls himself over to the sink. Washing out his mouth and splashing water over his face. It does little to stop the burning. It takes longer than it should for him to realize that the heat is coming from within and not the environment. 

He presses his palm against his chest, trying to sooth the pain, it feels like his ribs have been cracked open. He takes a few shallow breaths, struggling back to the bed. “Oh Sherlock,” he bites out, realizing the source of his discomfort, “What have you done?” 

There is a new bond in his familia center. It should have been impossible to invoke a name bond without his permission, but Mycroft knows better than to think impossible where his brother is concerned.

Closer inspection shows it is a protection bond from a fae. He recognizes the unique signature of a banshee. He’s not sure why Sherlock would create a bond to the Holmes name with his new minder. It has only been a month since he hired Mrs. Hudson, but there is no telling what Sherlock managed to get himself involved with in such a span. Not for the first time, Mycroft wonders if he ever should have left home. 

The bond has taken, but it is off kilter, weak along the edges and strained from however it was forced into place. Mycroft reaches out to it, soothing the tears and angling it properly into place. The pain in his chest subsides, but he feels oddly bereft, as if something important has been lost. The bond should have given him a sense of comfort, but it seems to have only accentuated his loneliness. 

He sighs and pulls out his mobile. The call to Sherlock rings and rings before clicking off, unanswered. Mycroft waits. 

_I prefer to text. -SH_

Unwilling to force the issue, Mycroft responds, his typing slow and tedious. _Why did you bond Mrs. Hudson to the Holmes name? -MH_

_It was necessary. -SH_

Mycroft doesn’t roll his eyes, but it is a near thing. _Why?-MH_

There is a long pause, and Mycroft watches the three dots dance at the bottom of the screen. He can practically hear Sherlock’s frustration. 

_Corrupt bond. It was necessary to save her life. -SH_

Mycroft wants to know how he accomplished it, but knows better than to try and pry that information from him. _Are you well?-MH_

There is another long pause. It makes Mycroft nervous. 

_Who is John?-SH_

Mycroft shoves the mobile back in his pocket. He has work to do. 

***  
The temple is sweltering. It is almost February and Mycroft feels ready to melt out of his clothes. This time of the year in London would be cold and rainy, but here he is in India contemplating jumping into the nearest body of water. 

Still, the scenery certainly makes up for it. Before him is the Lingaraja Temple, spires of laterite filling the sky in a reddish hue. The air is thick with the scent of spices and the murmuring of worshippers. Everything is hushed, the quiet shroud that seems to hang over any sacred place. 

It is early yet, but Mycroft has to move quickly, the temple doors closing at noon for ceremony. He heads straight for the main temple. Bilva leaves and tulasi mark the way, giving the spiced air a hint of sweetness. 

Before he can make it through the main door of the temple, however, he is stopped by security staff. “Sir, you can view the main temple from the platform,” the man informs him in accented english, pointing at a laneway to the right of the entrance. 

Mycroft nods, effecting an air of polite embarrassment as he moves towards the platform, inwardly cursing his luck. He knew that non-Hindu were not allowed in the temple, but had hoped it would not be guarded. Not for the first time, he wishes John was here. With his wings displayed, they would have been allowed into the temple without question. No one would bar a Devas from a place of worship, Hindu or not. 

Mycroft may not be a religious man, but he is not looking forward to this particular act of blasphemy. Unfortunately, Agent Smith had passed on new information regarding the creature they had met in Hong Kong. It had actually been a Rakshasi; a Hindu mythos capable of changing it’s shape. Which means he needs in that temple.

There is no such magic that can turn a mage invisible, but there are certainly ones that can make them less noticeable. Mycroft casts a powerful illusionary spell with aid from the magicks stored in the brolly. The Badu that perform the temple rituals are all powerful daana, he’s going to have to move quickly. 

He slinks through a side entrance, dodging worshippers. It’s more work to dodge the Badu. He has to tap into his sight to move through the temple paths before any of them can spot him. 

He finds what he is looking for in the largest of the temples. Surrounded by offerings is the statue of Harihara, and even without slipping his gaze to the corporeal plane, he can see the power radiating from it. 

He takes a seat on the mat in front of the statue, crossing his legs in the extremely uncomfortable method he had studied before coming. He unties the small package he had acquired in town, a small offering of sweets. “I hope this works,” he murmurs, placing the offering in front of him. 

With his palms resting over his knees, he closes his eyes, breathing deeply and trying to settle his nerves. London magi aren’t taught to focus through chakras the way daana are. It feels strange trying to focus his magicks through 7 different points. 

The words feel heavy on his tongue, but he chants the spell Smith had given him, focusing on moving his magic through the chakra points. He can feel the push of power, the spell catching, but it slips at the last moment, fizzling out. 

He does not curse, but it is a near thing. Mycroft takes a deep breath, gathers his magicks back together and tries again. It take 5 tries and much too long for the spell to finally click into place, a warm feeling settling in the pit of his stomach while the temple begins to shake. 

He stands quickly, stumbling when his right leg complains, numb after being crossed so long. He scurries to the back wall, watching as the statue begins to crack. While the statue was built to represent the god, Harihara, it also makes an excellent portal for Harihara the guardian. 

Stone sprays in all direction, Mycroft has to open the brolly to absorb the blows. Rocks clatter to the ground while the chamber fills with a rasping sound like sandpaper. He lowers his protection slowly, the room is filled with dust, clogging his lungs, and momentarily obscuring the guardian. 

Through the debris Harihara comes into view. Hijra is even larger than the statue, lifting up on muscular coils of brown and tan. Apparently, the guardian is a naga. 

Mycroft stumbles back, but he is already pressed against the wall. 

“Trespasser,” hijra hisses, leaning through the dust. Their human half is split right down the middle, purple on one side and blue on the other. A purple hand reaches out, golden bangles clattering together.

“Forgive me,” Mycroft coughs, voice wavering. “I need to ask you a question. It is for the benefit of all guardians, this I swear.”

“परदेशी” Harihara hisses again, a word Mycroft doesn’t recognize. Coils grate against the stone, pushing them closer. 

Mycroft had expected them to smell like snake, but up close there is a sweet smell mixed with coconut. His heart is pounding. “Do you know of a Rakshasi that recently left India? One in service to a demon? Please, that is all I need to know.” 

“You hunt a Rakshasi and expect my help?” All four of Harihara's arms flare back, claws extending. 

While Mycroft is focused on the arms, their tail lashes out, curling around his legs and dragging him to the ground. His head slams into the stone, sending spots across his vision. 

Harihara is over him in an instant, poisoned fangs extended. 

In that moment, his life does not flash before his eyes. Instead he feels a pang of regret for leaving Sherlock alone. At least John is safe. 

There is a burning heat sparking against his waist, and Harihara is flung back with a scream. Coils ripped from his body and allowing him to breath. He sits up slowly, head pounding and eyes still fuzzy. He dips his hand into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulls out the glowing form of his pocket watch. The gold is shimmering, the rune work bright with power. The metal feels warm and alive in his hand. 

“Thank you, father,” He whispers, tucking the watch back in his pocket. 

Mycroft’s whole body complains as he forces himself to stand. If he didn’t crack a few ribs, he would be surprised. Harihara had slammed against the far wall, momentarily knocking the guardian out, but not for long. He can already see the tail twitching. 

Mycroft pulls the last of the power stored in the brolly and runs -as best he can- for the door. The noise had attracted attention. He can already hear the shouts in the distance. He can’t cast the illusionary spell from before, but with his sight pulled to the forefront, he just manages to avoid detection. 

He returns to the hotel bruised, broken, and without the knowledge he came for. “Bollocks,” he growls, mobile held so tightly, the case creaks in protest. 

He types in Smith’s number with angry jabs, knowing he should not speak with anyone in this mood, but not caring. 

“Holmes,” Smith greets, “What did you learn?”

“Nothing,” Mycroft bites out. He takes a breath -ribs complaining with a sharp jolt- “nothing,” he repeats, calmer. “Harihara would not answer me.” 

“John could…” 

“No,” Mycroft interrupts. He can’t let Smith continue his argument. Mycroft _wants_ John with him, he does. He doesn’t like traveling alone, hadn’t realized how much the young angel had grown on him, but he will not risk what he saw in his vision, will not be the one to cause John’s wings to go black. 

“Fine,” Smith says, irritation entering his tone. “Then you should return to London for now.” 

“No, not yet,” Mycroft argues, even though he wants to return home with everything he is. “There have been reports of high level demons in Afghanistan. Demon’s without summoner’s bonds. It could be the master.” 

“It could also be rogue summoners causing trouble. Afghanistan is in the middle of a war. You don’t think either side would be eager to scoop up a seer of your caliber?” 

Mycroft scoffs, “What caliber? There is a demon wreaking havoc all over the planet, and I still can’t sense them, but I can do this. I can find out where the demons are coming from.” 

There is a long silence over the line. Smith breaks it with a sigh. “This is a stupid idea. You never struck me as a stupid man, Mr. Holmes.” 

“A calculated risk, if you will.” 

Smith sighs again, filling the line with static. “At least let me prepare an escort for you.” 

“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the picture in this one, I'm not that fond of how Harihara came out, but I was behind in my drawings this week and just didn't have time to fix it. 
> 
> There is a lot of Hindu references in this chapter, I did as much research as I could, but if I missed anything or worded something wrong, I apologize, and please tell me. 
> 
> Hijra is this story is being used as a pronoun if that confused you. It is an Indian term for the third gender.
> 
> A Devas is what I figured would be the Hindu equivalent of an angel, they are similar to demigods as far as I understood. 
> 
> Daana, is what I'm using as the name for an Indian mage.


	18. Alone: Part II

# Chapter Eighteen: Alone Part II

The Compound is empty. Dust has settled on every surface, and the air has gone stale. John drops his duffel to the ground with a thump, sending up a cloud of dirt. The door closes behind him with a screech, and he is alone. 

He knows he should be happy for his fellow angels. Uriel, in a series of events that only occur on television, had found her One. The daughter of a visiting MI5 agent that had somehow found her way back to the room. 

With both Uriel and John gone, James had demanded to be allowed into the Agent training program, and they had finally conceded. John thinks he may be following in James’ footsteps soon, but he’s still reeling from what happened in Singapore. 

Mycroft had induced a vision, putting himself into a trance that had lasted over 24 hours. He had come out of it wide-eyed and sweating, looking moments from a panic attack, and then he had…

John shoves his thoughts away, grabs his bag off the ground and marches over to the cot that had once been his. He tears his zipper open, ready to just dump the whole bag into a drawer, but stops at the sight of the package on top. 

There is a white clothing box sitting on the top of his stuff. It hadn’t been there before. He pulls it out with care, but there is no sense of malevolent magicks. There is a plain card -just folded cardstock- taped to the lid. He tugs the tag off and flips it open. Neat loops of familiar cursive fill the card. He recognizes the handwriting, of course, Mycroft. 

_Dear John,_

__

__

I cannot apologize enough for returning you to a place I know you hate, but I would rather have you unhappy than dead. My vision revealed a fatal threat to you should you continue on this mission. I cannot explain further, but I hope that you understand, and respect my reasoning. 

Attached is a gift I purchased for the holiday. I do hope you find some use for it. It has been an honor serving with you, and I give you my word that I will get you out of there as soon as I am able. 

_Sincerely,  
M_

John crumbles the letter. It goes up in a puff of smoke, golden fire licking over his fingers. He feels bad the moment it’s gone, but his anger doesn’t lesson. He has every intention of visiting the same fate on the box, but his curiosity gets the better of him. 

He flings the lid off the box, revealing a black and white striped jumper. It is cashmere-soft beneath his fingers, but the texture is off. When he holds the jumper up, there are no tags or signs of machine stitching. A piece of paper flutters to the floor. At first, he thinks it is another letter from Mycroft, but it is actually a company card. Printed in exaggerated text is a letter explaining the jumper. Apparently, it is hand woven pooka and gryphon fur, making the jumper resistant against some spell work and fireproof. Turning the jumper around, he finds two slits running down the back with buttons and loops at the bottom. It’s custom built for wings. 

“Dammit Mycroft,” John curses, crushing the wool in his hands. He thinks of their conversation in Hong Kong. Mycroft had listened, and he had actually bought John a thoughtful Christmas gift. He had no idea when the mage could have possibly managed to find such a thing, but John can’t bring himself to destroy it. Still, he places the jumper in his dresser, before burying it under the rest of his stuff. 

The next day, he cannot bear a single moment longer inside the compound. John steps from the room that has become his cell, and seeks out Agent Smith. 

In a rare bit of luck, Agent Smith is actually in London. John finds him at the range, practicing spellcraft in a deadly display of orange light. He glances up at John’s entrance, but does not pause in his casting. Each spell appears to be increasingly complicated versions of destructive magic. The range has gouges cut into the floors, the mannequin at the end of the lane is shredded. 

John waits for a lull in the casting before speaking. “I’m joining James in training.” 

Smith casts a vicious claymore spell that severs the mannequin from it’s post. “No,” He says flatly, hands still forming runes. 

“That wasn’t a question,” John snarls, reaching forward and grabbing Smith’s wrist. His power flares out protectively, lashing John’s palms, but he ignores it. 

Smith finally turns to face him, expression fierce. The shadows behind him lengthen and split, John can feel the Nalusa Falaya coming to the surface. The room goes cold, sending a shiver down his spine, but he holds his ground. 

“John,” Smith says, and there is something in his tone, that finally makes John drop his hold. 

“I’m not staying in that room. I can’t,” John says, and hates that it sounds like begging. 

Smith sighs, shoulders dropping. The room returns to a normal temperature as his shadow fades. “I know, John, but I’m not going to put you in training, not yet.” 

“Why?” John asks, brow furrowed. “Is this about Mycroft?”

“Not in the way you think. I just need you to be patient. Give me two more weeks.” 

“Two more weeks for what?” 

Smith smiles, a frightening expression on his usually dour face. “For your link to realize he’s being a idiot.” 

John’s eyebrows shoot up, “I don’t think…” 

“Two weeks,” Smith interrupts, “and I don’t see any reason why you can’t pay James a visit.” 

John feels some of the tension in his shoulders lessen. “Really?” 

“He’s in the barracks.” 

***

The barracks are at the far end of the underground base. Powerful shielding spells mark the way. Each step makes John more and more uncomfortable. The spells are specifically designed towards mythos, protections in case any of the trainees summon something they can’t control. It’s not enough to prevent his own entry, but it feels like an itch beneath his skin. 

He gives a sharp knock before pushing into the barracks. The room is similar to the Compound, but the roof is claustrophobically close. Both walls are lined with beds, each having a trunk in front of them. 

John walks down the row of carefully made beds, reading each trunk before stopping at the one marked James, B. He runs his finger along the painted B, “hmm.” 

“It stands for Bond, James Bond.” 

John grins, turning to find his friend leaning against another trunk. “What made you pick a last name?” 

James shrugs, a familiar smirk quirking his lips. “Agents have last names. I thought it fitting.” He straightens, stepping close. His gaze is as piercing as ever. John can feel the flood of his magic washing over him. 

“You alright?” James asks, even though his magic must have told him John was unharmed. 

“I’m fine.” 

James shakes his head, and John feels feathers run along his arm, though James doesn’t fully manifest. “You always were a terrible liar.” 

John huffs, offended. “I’m not lying. I’m fine.”

James rolls his eyes, stepping back to perch on his locker. “Where’s what’s his name then?” 

John looks away, grinding his teeth until his jaw hurts. “Mycroft is… gone.” 

James curses, “Shit, John. I’m sorry.” He fully manifest his wings this time, extending the right until it curls around John’s shoulder. “What are you going to do?” 

John reaches out, running his fingers through the primaries and coverlets, straightening them back into shape. There is a hint of silver along the barb that gives him pause. He wonders if his wings will bear those marks soon. The mark of an angel that’s given up their search. “I don’t know.” 

***

Two weeks. It isn’t that long. Not in the scheme of things, but the passing of time drags into eternity. John spends his days working with Smith, learning new spell craft and helping with paperwork. He spends afternoons with James, sneaking out of the barracks for flights in the subway. 

On the last day of Smith’s time frame, he and James manage to circumvent the shielding and get to open air. They find themselves in an old shipyard. The air smells of salt and rotting fish. The night sky is obscured by smog and city lights. John thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

“I love this city,” John says, tilting his head back to try and make out the difference between stars and airplanes. 

James snorts, “How could you love this city? You’ve never even been out in it.”  
“I have. I landed here,” John huffs, batting James with his wing. 

James smacks him right back, but he leaves his wing there. The feathers are a warm comfort, primaries curling around his shoulder like a hug. “Yeah, yeah. I landed here too, you know.” He mirrors John’s posture, looking up at the sky. “You love this city because your One is somewhere out there.” 

John looks over at him. “Yours too.” 

James shrugs, but stays silent. 

“They are you know, out there somewhere,” John taps at the feather closest to him, where the golden tip has taken on a silver sheen. “Please don’t give up.” 

“I haven’t.” 

John’s lips twist into a sad smile. “You always were a terrible liar.” 

James shakes his head at having his words thrown back at him. “I haven’t given up, not exactly. I’ve just decided to stop looking.” 

John opens his mouth to argue, but suddenly he can’t breath. Pain shoots through him, lungs constricting. He gasps, clawing at his chest. 

“John!” James shouts. He pulls John’s hand away, replacing it with his own. The golden glow helps distract him from the pain. Warm blossoms in his sternum, and John realizes that James is attempting to heal him. The only exception to angel healing is other angels, but James is attempting to heal something that isn’t physical. 

“Smith,” John says, trying to push James’ hand away. “Get Smith.” 

“Yes, good idea” James grabs John around the shoulder and pulls him to his side. John’s in too much pain to protest, but he does have enough control to pull his wings in. 

The trip through base is a blur, John is barely conscious, his ribs feeling like they are being cracked open from the inside. He registers James’ shout and then there are hands on his chest, the feel of sigils being drawn. 

The pain disperses so suddenly it is it’s own sort of agony. “Wha?” he gasps, finally opening his eyes. Agent Smith is hovering over him, James not far behind, wings spread in concern. 

“What…” John gulps, throat complaining, “What happened?” 

“I’m afraid this one is partially my fault,” Smith sighed, running his hand over his face. “It appears that Mycroft has gotten himself into trouble.” 

“What kind of trouble?” John asks, sitting up with help from James. 

“He went to Afghanistan in search of information. I had him under the protection of powerful mages, but I should have known that would not be enough.” 

“Why was I affected?” John asks, wincing at how callous he sounds, but he needs to understand. 

“As your link you share a connection. It shouldn’t have affected you so much, but he’s reaching out to you,” Agent Smith stands and goes over to his desk, which is when John finally realizes that he is in Smith’s office. 

“Reaching out?”

Agent Smith has his back to him, but John can read the tension in his shoulders, the stiff way he holds himself. He also notes the double shadows stretching behind him. “He was captured.” 

John closes his eyes, leaning against James’ weight at his back. He can read between the lines. “Someone is hurting him, hurting him badly enough that he’s lost control.” John stands on shaky legs. He feels strung out, stretch too thin with half of his concentration spread to the other side of the world. Still, he flexes his fingers, the warm metal of his guns falling comfortably into place. “I’m going to Afghanistan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long delay on this one. It's been a hectic few months. I ended up doing my first craft show in December, but I got talked into it two weeks before the show with zero inventory. I ended up sewing 22 wax canvas bags and 8 pencil rolls in time for the show. It was exhausting, but I did really well. 
> 
> I've also been learning how to do oil painting lately, so I thought I'd share the oil painted version of the illustration for this chapter.
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 


	19. Unseen

 

****

# Chapter Nineteen: Unseen

 

“Sherlock!” Lestrade shouts, fist pounding on the door.

 

As with every time before, there is no answer. Lestrade curses, and resists the urge to kick down his own bathroom door. He gestures over the doorknob, attempting his 5th variation of a lockpicking spell. The metal flares gold, but fades with a fizzle. The keyhole shifts, blowing a raspberry.

 

Lestrade lets out a scream and kicks the door. He stubs his toe. “Fine, you child! I have to go to a crime scene. Try not to blow anything up,” he snaps.

 

It takes the entirety of the trip to calm down. He knows he is being childish as well. Sherlock’s temper is, for once, equal to his circumstances, but the mage has always been good at getting under Lestrade’s skin.

 

His irritation fades away as he pulls up to the crime scene, however, the bright flash of caution tape changing his focus. He steps out of the car, approaching Sally. “What have we got?”

 

“It’s a weird one,” Sally says, pulling up the tape and leading him in.

 

The crime scene is on Chester Square, the sort of high end flat that has wards wrought from gold. Even he is stopped at the door, the spellwork is excellent, pricking at his skin and nearly bringing his wings to the surface.

 

Sally notices his hesitation, and presses a collection of talismans to his hand. Ward dampeners would not have worked against such a thing, but Sally, clever as always, had handed him a collection of power restrictors. With his magicks reduced to human levels, the wards let him in without pause.

 

They pass through the parlor - all hardwood floors and chandeliers, everything done in shades of white- and head for the stairs. Sally leads him to the master bedroom. There is man tied to the bed, hands and legs lashed to the posts with rope. He is bare but for a pair of black boxers and a blindfold tied around his face.

 

Lestrade pulls on a pair of gloves and carefully pulls the blindfold away. The man’s eyes are wide open, pupils and irises drained of all color. Silver lines fill the skin of his eyelids, stretching out towards his cheeks and brow. “Magic drain,” Lestrade says, stepping back.

 

“Yes,” Sally agrees, “this is Wilhelm Kramm a class 10 sorcerer with an affinity for fire. It runs in his family actually, they grew wealthy in the steel business and again with the invention of the steam engine. While his older brother sits at the head of the board, Wilhelm was in charge of research and development.”

 

“Do you think it’s business related? The brother?”

 

Sally looks down at the body, brow furrowed. “It’s too early to tell, but look at the bruising,” she gestures at his arms and legs.

 

Lestrade takes a closer look. Around the man’s wrists and ankles are large bruises and chaffing from the ropes. Further down his limbs are welts and further bruising. In a few places the skin was broken and dried blood flakes on his skin. The worst of the marks are concentrated on the man’s stomach, where it looks like someone had taken a lash to him. Lestrade shakes his head, clicking his tongue with a tsk. “He was tortured. He pulled against the ropes. He fought, but there are no signs of magical struggle. He should have been able to burn through those ropes with ease. There aren’t even scorch marks.”

 

Sally points and Lestrade’s hand, still holding the restrictors.

 

“Where there any signs of use?”

 

“No,” Sally admits, “but the killer could have taken them with them.”

 

“Yes, but there was no sign of a struggle at the entrance either. Whoever did this,” Lestrade points at Wilhelm, “he let them in.”

 

They find no physical evidence of the killer, even with the MET familiars searching the area. Magical evidence is equally nonexistent. Their ward specialist, swearing that the sigils guarding the home have not been tampered with.

 

Once everything has been cleared, the body is carefully untied and moved. Lestrade isn’t surprised to find more lacerations on the victims back.

 

“This is the third one this month,” Sally sighs, watching the removal.

 

“Third?” Lestrade asks, surprised.

 

“Yes,” Sally snaps, “You’ve been too busy to notice.”

 

Lestrade winces, feeling the words like a slap. He opens his mouth to apologize, but she cuts him off with a shake of her head.

 

“Sorry,” she sighs, rubbing at the bridge of her nose, “you didn’t deserve that, I know you had your reasons. It’s just this case.”

 

“You’re right, I haven’t been focused on work, but I’m here now,” Lestrade says, following Sally out of the house. Free from the wards, he quickly hands the restrictors back to her. The chains on his power ached no matter how voluntary. Even with his magicks returned, his shoulder blades ache, his wings itch, feeling heavy despite being hidden.

 

Sally sends him a challenging look, “Are you? I know you brought him back.”

 

“It was extenuating circumstances,” Lestrade tries to glare, but fails spectacularly. It’s hard to look serious when trying, and failing, to scratch your own back.

 

Sally rolls her eyes, but stays silent on the matter.

 

They return to the precinct to study the files on the previous victims. They hole up in their shared office, laying out page after page of reports. “Bugger, this is a lot,” Lestrade scowls, finally reaching the bottom of one of the case files.

 

“Well,” Sally shrugs, “the victims were high class in more ways than one. We have a class 10, class 12, and another 10. Each of them worth millions.”

 

“Which means lots of enemies, and lots of motive,” Lestrade sighs. He walks over to the window looking out at the pen and shuts the blinds.

 

Sally shoots him a curious look, right brow quirked.

 

“Sorry, I just really need to…” Lestrade shrugs out of his jacket, pulling his wings forward in the same movement. He’s careful not to flap, there is hardly any room and Sally would kill him if he disturbed the papers. Still, he manages to carefully stretch them, finally scratching that itch that has been bothering him since they left the crime scene.

 

Sally gasps, and Lestrade turns to find her wide-eyed in shock, hand pressed over her mouth.

 

“What’s…?” Lestrade starts to ask, when it hits him. Sally has never seen his wings. In all their years of partnership, he’s never let her see this part of him. Sure, she knows he is an angel, has seen the uniquely golden glow of his magic specific to his species, but never this. He’d grown complacent in Cornwall. Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock had already seen them and he had been too tired to bother hiding them. It had been a sort of freedom he didn’t have here in the city.

 

“I’m sorry, I forgot.” He pulls them in quickly, ruffling the papers, but, thankfully, not dislodging them. “It was the warding, I needed to…” he gestures to his back that hopefully explains.

“No, it’s fine, really,” Sally says, but her voice is soft and her eyes are still wide.

 

It hurts to see that expression, the sudden realization that he isn’t human. Lestrade forgets, himself, sometimes, but he thought Sally had long adjusted to the fact.

 

She shakes her head, gaze softening, “No don’t look at me like that. I’m sorry, really, it was just a surprise. I’ve never seen them before. Your wings are beautiful, truly.” She bites her lip, a nervous gesture Lestrade hasn’t seen since they were both fresh out of the academy. “I forget sometimes. It’s so easy to sort you into the category of a sorcerer with an affinity for holy magic. I haven’t been...understanding about your Link. I’ll try.” She quirks a grin, “Though I still don’t like him.”

 

Lestrade laughs, relieved. “Yeah, sometimes I don’t either.”

 

“Now,” Sally claps her hand, as if banishing the awkwardness. “Let’s find our murderer.”

 

***

 

Lestrade returns to the flat late, no closer to catching the killer. He’s exhausted, the start of a tension headache already building behind his eyes. Copies of the case files are heavy in his arms.

 

In his weariness, Lestrade had somehow forgotten about his petulant house guest. Sherlock has finally left Lestrade’s bathroom, now taking up residence on the sofa with a violin curled in his arms. He’s not playing, just plucking distractedly at the strings. His head is laid back, the white bandages around his eyes stark against the dark of his curls.

  
  


“Did you at least shower?” Lestrade asks, dropping the files on the coffee table with a thump.

 

Sherlock, who is still wearing the same pajamas from this morning, scoffs. “You didn’t solve the case.”

 

Lestrade ignores the statement. He heads for his fridge, tossing his suit jacket and crumpled tie on one of the stools as he goes. There isn’t much on the shelves, but he finds an old beef and broccoli take-away that doesn’t smell too bad. He eats it cold, straight out of the container. It’s disgusting and vaguely gelatinous, but it’s food - sort of.

 

When he turns back to the couch, Sherlock hasn’t moved. Sherlock, who has broken into multiple crime scenes, hasn’t made a single move towards the case files. Of course without his sight Sherlock can’t actually read what’s on them, but Lestrade thought he might at least pick them up.

 

“Do you want to hear about the case?” He asks, shifting Sherlock’s legs so he can actually sit on his own couch.

 

Sherlock snarls, barely shifting, so he’s still taking up a majority of the room. “What would be the point? I can’t _see_ any of the details. I can’t work without details.”

 

Lestrade sighs, because Sherlock, all teenage vitriol, is depressed. He can see it in the grey seeping into his aura, the fading of his usually vibrant blues. The flame of his soul has burned to embers and it hurts to look at. Lestrade had tried to explain that Mrs. Hudson had healed the damage to the best of her ability. That Sherlock is lucky to even have eyes, he almost burnt the flesh right out of their sockets. Mrs. Hudson’s quick thinking had even saved some of his sight. A few months of resting and restorative potions and he should have partial sight back, but Sherlock wasn’t interested in waiting and he sure as hell wasn’t interested in ‘ _partial_ ’ vision. He has to approach this carefully.

 

“Think of it as a game,” he starts, watching for that telltale head tilt that shows Sherlock is actually listening. “A challenge. Can you observe even without use of your eyes?”

 

Sherlock scoffs again, letting his head fall back. “I’ve already done that experiment. I can work with the information around me easily enough. For instance I know that you showed Sally your wings for the first time today. She did not respond well initially, but came around given time. I cannot, however, work from photographs.”

 

“Why not?” Lestrade challenges, resisting the urge to ask him how he knew about Sally. “What do you need to know? I’ll describe the scenes to you.”

 

“That won’t work!” Sherlock snaps, sitting up.

 

“Why not? Let me be your eyes. Come on Sherlock, what should I look at first?” Lestrade shuffles through the files and picks out the crime scene photos.

 

Sherlock sighs, and Lestrade half expects him to throw his arm up to head like a fainting maiden, but instead he turns his full focus on Lestrade. It’s rather disconcerting to have someone stare at you when their eyes are covered. “Tell me about the first crime scene.”

 

Lestrade has the victim stats memorized by now and easily lists, “The first victim was Godfrey Norton, he was…”

 

“No, no, no,” Sherlock interrupts, “Tell me about the crime scene.”

 

Closing his eyes and praying for patience, Lestrade continues. “Fine. First victim was found at his house on Albemarle Street, in his bedroom. He was stripped of everything, but his boxers. A high quality, black silk brand that matched those found in the wardrobe. He was tied spread eagle to the bed, four ropes tied his wrists and ankles to the posts of the bed frame. Knots were done in a slipknot fashion so they tightened with struggle. Extensive bruising at the rope sight confirmed a struggle.”

 

“What kind of rope?” Sherlock asks, leaning forward.

 

“Uh,” Lestrade looks down at the picture in his hand, the close up of the knot. “Not sure of the brand, but it looks like a black nylon.”

 

“Rough or smooth?”

 

“Smooth,” Lestrade answers, narrowing his eyes.

 

Sherlock hums, a smirk teasing the edges of his frown.

 

“Care to share with the class?”

 

Sherlock shakes his head, “No, I won’t theorize before learning all of the available data. Idiots,” he says rather pointedly, “twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.”

 

It is actually good advice, but Lestrade refuses to say so. Instead, he returns to the photo. “Contusions averaging  5 to 8 cm in length were found on the back, chest, arms, and legs. Signs of lacerations were found on the back and chest, also 5 to 8 cm in length suggesting they were made by the same implement.”

 

“Any bruising pattern?”

 

“Not that we can tell. The medical examiner considers the marks to have been made with something like a flog or a riding crop.”

 

“Was there a chemical analysis of the blood?”

 

Lestrade flips through the reports. “No signs of alcohol or drugs in any of the victims, but the necromancer that read the bodies reported increased…Huh.” He flips through the reports, checking that they match up.”

 

“What?” Sherlock snaps, leaning into Lestrade’s space like he could read the reports himself.

 

Lestrade pushes him back. “Alright, alright. It’s just weird, I didn’t realize this before. The necromancer reported increased levels of serotonin, oxytocin, vasopressin, and dopamine in all three victims before death. Attempts at reviving the victims for interview failed due to the magic drain. It was so complete their systems resembled those of nonmagi.”

 

Sherlock nods, smirking. “Just as I thought. They were masochists.”

 

Lestrade gives one, long, slow blink. “What?”

 

“Masochists, they derived pleasure from pain, usually sexual in nature, but not necessarily. They weren’t being tortured. The nylon rope gave it away, but the hormone levels confirmed it. Combined with the magic drain, you are looking for a succubus or an incubus. I would suggest looking into their internet history, focus on interests in BDSM sites.”

 

Lestrade has pages and pages of reports laid out before him. He has been looking at them all day with Sally, he was there, at the crime scene. Yet in fifteen minutes of _reading_ the reports to Sherlock, he’s figured it out. Lestrade shakes his head, laughing, “Amazing.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I've said it before, but originally this story was told entirely through Mycroft's POV with Sherlock not being introduced until chapter 15 or so. I'm soooo glad I changed my mind. I really love writing both sets of stories. I hope you guys enjoy both of them.


	20. The Woman

****

****

#  **Chapter Twenty: The Woman**

 

Sherlock wakes to darkness. It shouldn’t be a surprise, not anymore, but the act of opening his eyes to nothing is still disconcerting. He doesn’t move at first, still feigning sleep as he listens to Lestrade stomp about. 

 

The Detective is rather heavy on his feet for a creature capable of flight. He stumbles about in his usual morning chaos before shooting out the door in a rush. 

 

Sherlock waits, making sure he is really gone, before sitting up. He can hear the sounds of London traffic roaring outside and wonders what time it is. He has no real way of knowing, but judging by the morning rush and Lestrade’s schedule, it’s sometime between 7 to 9. 

 

Sherlock swings his legs over the couch carefully. He had pushed the coffee table out of the way his first day back, but still knocks into it if he isn’t careful. He moves to the kitchen cautiously. He’s being ridiculous, he knows, he has the layout of the flat memorized, but there is something different about navigating with his eyes closed and attempting it without the safety net of sight. Sherlock is being a coward, he tells himself, but that does not make his steps any less tentative. 

 

The kitchen is easier to maneuver, the galley design leaving only a single step between one counter and the next. He takes a mug down and gets the kettle from the stovetop. He’s still not sure why Lestrade doesn’t own an electric kettle, but it’s easy enough to fill the old thing, fingers curled around the edge to feel for the water. 

 

Lestrade’s ancient stove has metal burners, so he can place the kettle down by feel. He flicks the dial to high and checks that the correct burner heats up. Sherlock pulls out a bag of earl grey, differentiating between the mess of choices by smell. The warming scent of bergamot fills his senses as he waits. 

 

The sharp shrill of the kettle is irritating, shooting pain behind his useless eyes. He flips the stove off with a hard twist before pouring the boiling water into his mug. The water burns when it touches his fingers, but he’s not going to try and time it again. The first two attempts had resulted in boiling water all over the floor. His feet still hurt. 

 

It is an absurd process just to prepare a cup of tea, a process that has always been done for him, but now the idea of not doing it himself grates. He drinks his tea leaning against the counter, not willing to risk the mug trying to walk back to the couch. He’s broken half of Lestrade’s cups trying just that. Lestrade hadn’t said anything about it of course, but Sherlock is beginning to understand that Lestrade can hardly afford to feed him, let alone replacing any of his few possessions. 

Sherlock has never been one to concern himself with the situations of others, but he finds himself… fond of the detective. And if nothing else, he owes the angel a debt. Which is why he’s going to help him solve this case. 

 

He sets his empty mug in the sink and summons his coat to him with a gesture. The Belstaff encircles his arms in comforting warmth. He hasn’t worn the cloak in days, and has missed it’s familiar weight. He moves back to the couch with steadier steps, his coat giving nudges in the right direction. 

 

He pulls out a piece of paper and a few beeswax candles from his coat’s inner pocket. He lights the candle with a spell and uses another to keep his hands warm. It’s a long process to draw out the summoning circle in wax, but when it’s dry he can run his fingers over the raised lines, checking for imperfections or breaks. It wouldn’t work for a more complicated summoning, but for this it works perfectly. 

 

Sherlock marches into the kitchen and prepares a bowl of cream and honey. He’s back to the couch before he realizes he made the journey without a single misstep. He places the bowl in the center of the circle and takes a deep breath. This is a summoning he’s been capable of since primary, and there is no real danger even if the circle isn’t perfect, but he’s nervous in a way that is just embarrassing.

 

Sherlock shoves his uncertainty forcefully away and starts the intonation. The ancient greek rolls smoothly off his tongue, and this, he tells himself, this is something he can do. A warm breeze sweeps through the flat, bringing with it the scent of violets. 

 

He can feel the breeze solidify before him, the call of the circle giving shape to the breeze. There is a pleased chittering followed by loud slurps. Sherlock knows the Aurae is accepting the offering, dunking it’s head into the cream and devouring it in a great rush. 

  
  


_ Good, good _ , it chatters, squeaking and clicking.  

 

Sherlock waits, impatient, but knowing better than to interrupt a nymph mid offering. 

 

When the slurping finally comes to an end it gives a loud chortle,  _ Dumb mage, dumb mage _ .  _ Blind as bat, blind as mole, that you get gazing at a soul _ . 

 

Sherlock clenches his fists, it’s everything he can do not to lash out with a grounding spell, but he resists. “Yes fine, I need you to be my eyes. I’m looking for a magic thief, an incubus or succubus that’s been feeding off the rich.” 

 

_ No, no, no, no, _ it chatters, clicking laughter following this pronouncement. 

 

“You accepted the offering,” Sherlock snarls. 

 

_ No _ , it chortles and only the quick movement of his cloak keeps him from getting hit. The bowl strikes the couch with a soft thud.  _ More, _ it demands. 

 

“More?” Sherlock scoffs, “this has always been the amount.”

 

_ Dumb mage blind. Needs Aura more. Aura wants more _ , it declares with a smug chirp.

 

“No,” Sherlock growls, this is ridiculous. 

 

The warm breeze turns cold and tears through the flat, rattling the windows.  _ Then free Aura _ , it shrieks. 

 

Sherlock leans back, surprised. He’s never had a nymph respond like this. He could force the issue with grounding magicks of course, but making an enemy of one nymph is a dangerous slope. They work in packs, a hive like mind that makes them excellent for spying and terrifying as an enemy. 

 

“Alright,” he concedes, grabbing up the bowl. “One more, and that’s it.” 

 

The wind dies down, the soothing scent of violets returning.  _ Yes, good, good. Aura find. Aura see _ . 

 

Sherlock refills the bowl with the last of Lestrade’s cream and a heavy spoonful of honey. 

 

The wind nymph slurps it up with the same enthusiasm as the first.  _ Find now, find good. Aura be back _ , it declares, finally pleased. 

 

Bargain struck, the tentative contract slipping into place, Sherlock breaks the circle, scraping away the wax with his thumbnail. 

 

There is a woosh as the nymph returns to the air, slipping out of the flat with a ruffle of Sherlock’s hair. He falls back into the cushions, irritated. With a surge of motion, he snatches the bowl from the table and throws it at the wall. The sound is immensely satisfying. The sharp crack of shattered ceramic. 

 

“Fuck,” he snarls a moment later, realizing what he’s done. 

 

He walks over to the mess with a sigh, stepping carefully. He’s not wearing socks, and really doesn’t want to damage his feet again. He kneels down and casts a rather forceful repairing spell. It’s magic that requires a detailed mental image of the damaged object, but he pulls it back together with his memory of how the bowl felt in his hands. 

 

He can feel the irregularity of the edges when he runs his fingers over the repaired surface, but it will have to do. Fixing things, he thinks wryly, had never been one of his strong suits. 

 

He places the bowl in the sink and goes back to the couch. All Sherlock can do now is wait. He grabs his violin from its case on the floor and decides to play. This is something, at least, he doesn’t need his eyes for. 

 

Time passes unnoticed, drowned out by the song of his violin. He plays without conscious thought, moving from classical, to tones he’s heard on the radio, to the deep call of London, the music of his city as he hears it. 

 

The last strain, cool and melancholy, echoes through the flat and is meet with clapping. At first, he thinks that Lestrade has returned, but the sound is wrong and there is a scent of expensive perfume on the air. 

 

“Ah,” Sherlock says, placing his violin aside, “the Aurae found you then.” 

 

“Indeed, cheeky little thing,” a voice answers, female with a London accent, but there is slight accent hidden in the words. 

 

“An incubus then, I thought so,” Sherlock announces. 

 

She laughs, a seductive sound full of amusement. “Not many guess that.” 

 

“That is because idiots attach genders to Incubi and Succubi, when the terms actually refer to position,” Sherlock says primly. He refuses to show fear, allowing an unconcerned slouch to his shoulders as he faces the source of the voice. The one benefit of the bandages around his eyes is that it is easy to appear to be looking in the right direction. 

 

“Hmm, clever boy,” she hums, and Sherlock hears movement, the sound of skin on skin as she sits on the coffee table. 

 

His brow furrows, the movements had not sounded right, it was almost… “Are you naked?” he blurts out, feeling a blush heat across his cheeks. 

 

It should not unnerve him he knows, he can’t even see her, but his surprise makes him sloppy. 

 

She laughs again, sounding pleased. “Consider it my battle dress, one rather lost on you, however.” She tsks, and Sherlock just barely refrains from flinching when he feels fingers on his cheek. Her nails are long, the tips of them teasing across his skin. “That’s rather new. What a shame, I imagine you have beautiful eyes.” 

 

His heart is pounding. His senses overwhelmed by that expensive perfume. He can feel her breath as she leans into his space. The Belstaff, and how had he forgotten he was wearing it, flares up in defense. 

 

Unconcerned, the heat of power leans back and Sherlock can breath again. “You are lucky that I’m done in London for now, or your detective would be quite the trouble. It was you that lead him to me.” 

 

Sherlock nods, though it wasn’t a question. 

 

“It’s a shame really. He’s rather dishy, your detective, but I doubt I would have much luck drawing the attentions of an angel.” 

 

Sherlock stiffens, and knows he fails at hiding his surprise. 

 

“Oh darling,” she coos, “even tattered as he is, that sort of aura  _ burns _ . You should know that.” 

 

Sherlock quirks a brow, but the bandage rather defeats the effect of the expression. “Why are you here?”

 

“I thought I’d see the mage kicking around where he shouldn’t. Imagine my surprise at finding you. I’d be careful darling, you’re drawing all sorts of attention.” 

 

There is a shift in the air as she stands. 

“What sort of attention?” he asks, hearing her pause. 

 

“That would be telling.” 

 

He can imagine there is a smirk on her lips, something taunting. “At least tell me your name?” 

 

There is a long pause, a weighty silence. “You can call me Irene.” 

 

Sherlock knows its a lie the moment she speaks, but she is already gone. Only the lingering perfume to prove she was ever there. 

 

***

 

Lestrade returns to the flat late. Sherlock can tell because the roar of traffic outside has dulled to the occasional hum. He’s also carrying something that smells like chinese food judging by the pungent whiff of garlic. 

 

“Evening, Sherlock,” he greets, stepping into the flat and dropping a bag on the counter with a thud. His keys clattering into the mail tray and his coat goes on the hook at the back of the door. Like always, it falls the first time with a whoosh, and he grumbles as he picks it up and succeeds in hooking it the second time. 

 

He shuffles around a bit, opening the fridge and pulling out a beer, judging by the click of glass on the counter. “I got lo mein and some chicken and broccoli. Come and get it.” 

 

Sherlock wants to tell him that he isn’t hungry. That he needs to think and that the greasy food will hinder his process, but he hasn’t eaten since yesterday and his stomach is roaring with it. “Fine,” he grumbles, not mentioning that Lestrade got his favorite.

 

He goes to sit at the bar stool and accepts the plate pushed towards him. A moment later, Lestrade places a series of containers down in front of him with a thump and drops some silverware on the plate with a clatter. 

 

Sherlock identifies the spoon by feel and has to sniff each container to figure out what is in it. 

 

Lestrade doesn’t mention it, only chatters about his day as he fills his own plate. “We found a website that all of the victims visited. High-end thing, tons of security. It took the tech guys ages, but we finally found the woman that all of them saw. Of course there is no address listed for one, Irene Adler. Which must be an alias because she didn’t exist until this year. Fricken demons learning to use the internet, but I’m sure we’ll find her.” 

 

Sherlock highly doubts that, but he doesn’t comment. He eats his food in silence, only the occasional scrape of fork on plate when he misses his food. 

 

“Did you have a good day?” Lestrade asks, tentative. 

 

Sherlock thinks of the summoning and the shattered bowl and the incubus. “Yes,” he admits, “it was productive.” 

 

“Well, that’s not frightening at all,” Lestrade huffs, but is distracted when his phones buzzes across the table. 

 

“Lestrade,” he answers. There is a long pause as he listens to whoever is on the other end. “Oh,” he says softly, and Sherlock can hear his nervous swallow. “Yes of course. Yes I know where it is. Tomorrow, yeah.” There is a beep as he hangs up, dropping the phone with a rattle. 

 

“What is it?” Sherlock asks, curious. Lestrade had sounded weird. 

 

“Your brother is back in London. He wants to see you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was really interesting trying to write this without any real visual descriptions.


	21. Afghanistan: Part I

****

# Chapter Twenty-One: Afghanistan: Part I

Mycroft is not religious, but if he was going to take up praying he thinks it would be now. The C-130 roars as it dips into a steep dive. Making the humvee chained only a meter away shift in its chains. The soldier sitting beside him, continues to snore. 

 

Mycroft tightens his grip in the red netting beneath him and tries to take deep breaths. 

 

“You can shove him off you know,” Ruiz says on his other side. He had been introduced to her before take off. She had told him, when he had quirked a brow at her accent, that her family was from Mexico, but she was born and raised in Texas. This had apparently left her with a Texan drawl and a habit of rolling her r’s. 

 

“It is fine,” he says, looking over at the man currently taking a nap on his shoulder. Spinetti is apparently Italian and from Boston. As far as Mycroft can tell, he is sharp tempered and impossible to understand. He doesn’t dare wake the man up. 

 

Especially since down the cramped row of jump seats, more than half the unit is sleeping. Only himself, Ruiz, and Doc - whose name tag reads Nwazaruke - are awake. Mycroft thinks it must be some sort of magic that allows the rest of them to sleep. Some are slumped together while others have their heads tilted back at uncomfortable angles against the netting. 

 

Even without the noise, Mycroft knows he could never sleep like this. The helmet they gave him doesn’t fit right, the top always slipping down and the strap digging into his chin. The bullet proof vest -  _ it’s an IBA, damn civilians _ \- sits heavy on his chest and the side plates dig into his hips. The holster and gun, an M9 with no bullets, they had given him is wrapped around his thigh and bites painfully into his groin. 

 

The plane lurches again and he tightens his grip on the seat until it hurts. The com turns on with a crackle. “Hold onto your panties ladies, it’s time to land this rust bucket,” the pilot announces. 

 

Spinetti snorts and sits up, wiping drool from his mouth. Around them, everyone starts to shift and sit up straighter. Some grab onto the netting while others plant their boots, those with rifles holding tight onto the barrel. 

 

The plane sinks into a sharp dive that makes Mycroft’s insides lurch. Around them, the engines roar and the chains holding the cargo in place shake and rattle. Pings sound off the hull and he realizes with dread that it’s the sound of bullets. 

 

The massive cargo plane hits the ground with a sudden jerk, rocking Mycroft to the side and knocking his malfitting helmet into Ruiz’s. The hit shakes him, sending painful tremors down his neck and bile rushing up his throat. He holds it back with a painful swallow. 

 

“Forgive me,” he says when his ears stop ringing. 

 

“Nah, happens to everyone, it’s why we wear’em,” Ruiz waves him off. She takes off her own helmet with a sigh, revealing dark hair tucked into one of neatest buns Mycroft has ever seen. A moment later she hides it again under a hat she pulls from her back pocket. “Switch to your PC too. We don’t hafta wear the bucket on base.” She must notice his lack of comprehension, because she taps at her hat. “PC, short for patrol cap. Don’t ever walk outside without a cover, kay? It’s a thing.” 

 

Mycroft has realized in a very short time that the military has many ‘things’. Their pension for rules is even more ridiculous than Mi6. He takes his PC out of one the cargo pockets he had placed it in when they had issued it to him. It doesn’t fit quite right either and Ruiz snorts. 

 

“Oh lord no,” she snatches it off his head and folds the bill between her hands. She does that a few more times before tugging it back on his head. It sits better, tighter around the front and sitting just above his ears.

 

“Are we adopting?” a wry voice says from behind. 

 

Mycroft turns to find a tall woman standing at the open bay door, sunlight at her back. 

 

Ruiz makes a pleased noise and hurries over to her, pulling the woman down for a quick kiss. “Missed you,” she murmurs and Mycroft feels like he’s viewing something private, even though the plane is still full with soldiers gathering their gear. He’s actually surprised none of them react to the display, especially since America only just repealed their absurd ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ policy. 

 

Ruiz leads the other woman over, fingers entwined. Despite her deep tan, Ruiz looks practically pale next to her companion.  “Holmes this is my wife, Gab this is Holmes.” 

 

The woman gestures at her nametag which also reads Ruiz, “Just call me R2, everyone else does.” 

 

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Your wife has been of great aid to me.” he says, shaking her hand. She has a firm grip and and an intriguing line of calluses along her palm. Up close, her eyes, which had looked almost black, are actually a dark shade of blue. 

 

R2’s honey-gold brow shoots up, lips twitching in a hint of a smile. “That’s quite the accent,” she comments, with no real accent of her own other than vaguely American. 

 

“Your Unit has been kind enough to allow me to...tag along, if you will.” 

 

“Not my Unit,” R2 says, still looking amused. 

 

A heavy weight slips over his shoulder as Mycroft is pulled into a one-arm hug. “Ey Crumpet, R1 an’ R2 aren’t in this Unit. Ya think tha higher-ups, woulda let tha best in our ragtag band?”

 

Mycroft tries to discreetly pull away from the man. Though none of them smell particularly pleasant at the moment, being tucked under Jackson’s arm is just fowl. 

 

Jackson, unperturbed, pulls him closer while reaching out with his other arm to tap at the patch on Ruiz’s left shoulder. It’s shaped like a shield with a broadsword embroidered in the center. “Did’ya notice?”

 

“Since I doubt anyone explained it to him, prolly not” Ruiz huffs, rolling her eyes. She turns a much kinder look on Mycroft. “This is my unit patch, always on the left,” she says indicating the same patch. She taps at her right shoulder where a wing-shaped insignia sits under the American flag. “The right is the combat patch. Down ‘ere everyone wears one, obviously, but back home it shows who’s been deployed.” 

 

Mycroft has indeed noticed the patches, and that they occasionally matched, but had yet to infer their purpose. He feels terribly out of his depth. 

 

“You’ll figure it out,” R2 says, “but it’s time for us to go.” She turns her full attention on Ruiz, “Colonel wants to see us.” 

 

“Shit, right, yeah.” Ruiz gives them a wave. “Good luck.” With that, they are gone, out the back of the plane without a backwards glance. 

 

“Jackson! Holmes! Hoof it, we got a brief in 15,” Morton shouts from outside. 

 

“Hold’yer britches,” Jackson huffs, but gathers up his gear in a smooth sweep and marches off the plane. 

 

Mycroft struggles to haul his equipment up and follow. This may have been a bad idea. 

 

***

  
  


They spend the first three days getting acclimated, settling in, and sitting through the never ending tedium of briefs. It’s cold, which shouldn’t be a surprise, it’s February in the mountains, but somehow Mycroft expected it to be hot. He’s grateful now for the heavy weather gear he had been issued, ill fitting though it may be. 

 

He is still an outsider looking in, the unit doesn’t seem to know quite what to do with him. They are a close knit group, fiercely protective of one another while also driving each other crazy. It makes him miss Sherlock. 

 

On the morning of the fourth day, Sergent Morton calls him into the command center. 

 

“Sergeant,” Mycroft greets, standing outside the office. 

 

“Come in Holmes, take a seat,” the older man calls him in. Sgt. Morton is in his early forties and on his 10th deployment. Mycroft doesn’t know what state he is actually from, but his calm demeanor would suite any British gentlemen. 

 

Mycroft takes the seat. “Sergeant?” He’s finally learned to stop using sir. He’s never seen so many people offended over polite address.

 

“Our convoy is leaving today at 0930. I want to confirm if you will be coming with us?” The sergeant’s expression is blank, no judgement. 

 

Mycroft, of course, knows the risks, has been hearing about them since he first spoke with Smith. They will be driving into a war zone to hunt rogue demons with a very small force. Well trained or not, it will be dangerous. Not for the first time, he wonders if he is making a terrible mistake. He probably is, but Mycroft gives a sharp nod. “I’m going.” 

 

Something like a smile hints at the corner of Morton’s mouth, but it’s quickly smoothed away to his default flatness. “You have done well following orders so far, continue to do so and we will not have a problem.” He opens his desk drawer and takes something out, pushing it across to Mycroft. 

 

He recognizes the items immediately. The first is the unit patch, a circle with the silhouette of an arching cat. The second is a combat badge, a pentagram set in a triangle. Mycroft is oddly touched by the gesture, though he knows it to be practical. He had been given every other part of the uniform. He has name and Army tags and, much to his chagrin, an American flag, but his shoulders have remained bare. 

 

“Thank you,” he says honestly, and puts the badges into place. 

 

***

  
  


They head out in three up-armored humvees. Mycroft feels exposed, even in the center car. He would have prefered being in one of the larger, armoured vehicles, but for such a small convoy, speed is most important. 

 

The ride is rough, jostling Mycroft from side to side, and its everything he can do not to bump into the man standing beside him. Jackson is in the gunner position, manning the 50 cal machine gun mounted to the top of the humvee. Mycroft can feel the power radiating off the weapon. 

 

Jackson, he had been informed, is a water and wind sorcerer from New Orleans. He’d finally raised the money for his own shipping boat when a hurricane destroyed everything he owned. Devastated, he turned to the Army, not out of any sense of national pride, just looking for a job and a roof over his head. Mycroft is starting to realize that it is a story shared by many. 

 

If there is any hard feelings about his past, however, it doesn’t show. Jackson is good at what he does. He put the 50 cal together piece by piece, enchanting each part with his own special brand of magic. Each gunner seems to have put their own brand on their weapons, and Mycroft has been watching them build bullets for days. 

 

The regular soldiers use plain bronze rounds, a bullet is a bullet as far as humans are concerned, but for the more dangerous foes, each soldier carries a blessed silver bullet. For this unit, the 321st Demon Support Detachment, all bullets are handmade. 

 

Mycroft touches the holster on his thigh, the handgun that is now loaded. The night before, Jackson had handed him 15 silver casings and had patiently helped him load each one, the delicate combination of gunpowder, sage, and salt. Mycroft had followed the instruction carefully, even carving small pentagrams into each casing. He runs his thumb over the calluses building on his fingertips, feeling each, clumsy scratch, and tries to slow the rapid hammer of his heart.

 

They drive for two, tense, hours. Mycroft spends every second with his gaze fixed outside. His eyes ache from so long in the spectral plane, but they make it to their destination without incident. 

 

It is a small town in the mountains. Strategically, not that important, but known for supplying the fire and earth mages. What is not known, is if the supplies have been given willingly or under coercion. With unbound demons causing trouble in the area, it’s the ideal time to build a rapport. 

 

Mycroft exits the humvee last, watching as the rest of the unit forms around one another, hands on their weapons, but muzzles pointing down. He doesn’t remove his gun from it’s holster, but he has a shield spell at the ready, magic buzzing under his skin. 

 

There is a crowd gathered at the entrance to the village. They stare at the soldiers with a mix of fear and curiosity. A man exits from the group, hands raised, palms open. He says something in a rolling language Mycroft recognizes as Pashto. 

 

Morton holsters his gun and steps forward, hands also raised. He greets the man in the same language. 

 

They speak for some time, a collection of sounds that are meaningless to Mycroft. He wishes he understood, he should have put more study into the language. He makes a mental vow to never let himself be so unprepared again. While he cannot understand the words, he can read the body language. 

 

While Morton is on alert, he is relaxed, aura calm, despite the situation. The other man seems more apprehensive, shoulders tense, and hints of yellow fear tingeing his aura, but there are marks of relief stirring at his core. 

 

They shake hands and Morton returns to the group. “The demons have been attacking the town every night for a week. They’ve laid protections, but they have no strong mages left to chase them off.” 

 

“Because they ran off to join the war or they got snatched up?” McClung asks. He’s a short man, but broad in shoulder and chest, an enchanter from Cincinnati. 

 

“It’s unclear at this time. Stay on guard. McClung, Doc, and Spinetti, walk the parameter and reinforce the wards. If possible Doc, I want you to see to some of their wounded. It sounds like some of the children are suffering from demon sickness.” 

 

The three men nod. 

 

“Helmly and Cook, stay with the vehicles. The rest of you will come with me, the demons have been descending from the mountains to the west. We will continue on foot from here. Wedge formation, Harris you’re 2nd team lead. Holmes pull rear left, 5 meter close. ” 

 

Mycroft has had a chance to practice formations with the unit only once before, it isn’t a complicated concept, but that doesn’t soothe his nerves.

 

Morton leads the group, with the rest of the soldiers falling into their usual positions. Mycroft is behind Jackson and to the left of Coble. He’s careful to stay the designated 5 meters apart, gun in his hands and spell on his lips. He feels coiled tight, ready to snap at any moment. 

 

They have only just entered the valley when Mycroft feels a dark pulse to his left. Nervous as he is, he remembers the hands symbols, holding up a fist that echoes down the formation, freeze.

 

Jackson runs over to him, surprisingly quiet despite the large rifle in his arms. “What is it?” he whispers. 

 

“The demons, they are watching,” Mycroft says, gazing fixed to the darkness looming in the distance. 

 

“Where and how many?” 

 

“There are at least 5 at 8 o’clock up on that ridge. They are being cloaked, I can’t tell if there are more.” 

 

Jackson claps him on the shoulder, gaze finding the ledge. “Good job.” He turns and runs up to Morton on point. The information is passed down the line with a series of gestures.   

 

Mycroft can feel sweat breakout across his brow. Irrationally, he taps at the pocket over his heart, feeling the hard ridge where his watch rests. 

 

Morton gestures them on, pointing the unit at 8 o’clock. The demons know they are there, no need for subtlety. 

 

They are 200 yards from the ledge when Morton gives the order, holding up a finger in a quick circle. Mycroft’s team moves to the left, forming a tight circle, backs to the center. Harris’s team moves passed them, taking up guard closer to the ledge. 

 

“Jackson, Langdon,” Morton says, and that’s all the order they need. 

 

Jackson shoulders his weapon, flipping up the sight. Mycroft can hear the soft murmur of french, power building around them. Wind encircles their group, building. Jackson pulls back on the pump on his rifle, Langdon following a moment after. The grenades launch further than normal, carried on the strength of the wind. 

 

The rounds hit with an explosion of wind, twin tornadoes forming with a roar. The air crackles with banishing sigils, marks lighting across the ledge. 

 

There is a terrible howl and Mycroft can actually feel the dark forms of the demons being snuffed out. He’s so focused ahead, however, he doesn’t notice the others until Coble is already shooting. 

 

He shifts his weight, spinning around. There is a hoard of demons coming up behind them. They lurch out of the shadows, dark forms twisting as they bubble forth. 

 

The air fills with the sharp scent of rot, gagging him. There is nothing natural about the way they move, too many limbs, too many eyes, too many teeth. They howl with foul laughter, taunting.

 

 

Mycroft braces his gun and fires, an accuracy spell tied-in. The bullet flies true, hitting a demon in the center of a cluster of eyes. The silver does it’s job snuffing out the creature in a crackle of black smoke, but just as quickly another takes its place. 

 

Mycroft fires half his clip before Morton calls for a fall back. 

They reconvene with Harris’s group, forming a larger circle. Mycroft takes up the chant with the rest of them, a powerful shield covering their unit. Behind him, one of Harris’s team is calling in the ambush, the radio crackling. Mycroft wonders if they can actually hear him over the demonic screech. 

 

Still chanting, Mycroft kneels down, testing the dirt. It’s soft enough he can draw the circle, etching the complicated sigil as large as he can. 

 

Jackson, at his side, takes a second to glance at it. “Ya can’t move all’a us wih that, ya don’t have tha strength.” 

 

Mycroft ignores him. 

 

The demons surge, as if sensing his intentions. The shadow of wings passes over, but for once it is not a relief, the archdemons are coming. 

 

He changes the chant, latin rising above the others. The circle comes to life, purple flames lining the sigil. 

 

“Ya can’t power that ya idiot,”Jackson shouts, raising his boot to break the circle, but it’s already taken the spell. 

 

Mycroft feels a hand on his shoulder. He turns enough to see Morton beside him, expression grim. He can’t stop the flow of his words, but he shoots the sergent a questioning look. 

 

The man gives a sharp nod.

 

Permission granted, Mycroft reaches out to the 9 soldiers around him. His powers strain, he’s never attempted something like this, but he can feel the others offering up their own magic. Those that are compatible, merge with him, the purple of his magic burning a bright white with the additions. 

 

He shouts the last of the spell, blood coating the back of his throat. He feels the magic take, tearing through him. Agony rips through his chest, black filling the edge of his vision. His head is pounding, but he forces himself to look. Of the ten soldiers that had formed their group, only Morton and Jackson remain. The rest are gone, safe. 

 

“Ya crazy fucker,” Jackson huffs, nose and ears bleeding from magic drain. 

 

“Good job,” Morton says, clapping Mycroft on the back. 

 

Mycroft tries to say something, but blood chokes him, vision fading. All around them, the demons surge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for those that have never read any of my other stories, I actually was in the Army and deployed to Iraq, which is part of the reason of why I put Mycroft in a US unit instead of a British one. I was in a support unit, so I based the combat maneuvers on what I remembered from basic training. 
> 
> While some of the patch designs I listed are made up, the unit patch with the arching cat, actually exists. It has belonged to the 81st infantry division since WWI, though currently belongs to a reserve unit. My unit patch was actually the sword and shield I gave to Ruiz. The shear variety of patches has always been interesting to me. 
> 
> This one was a blast to write, and I'm pretty pleased with the illustrations, though If anyone would like to draw Mycroft all nervous and uncomfortable in an Army uniform, you'd make my year. ;P


	22. Afghanistan: Part II

****

# Chapter Twenty-Two: Afghanistan: Part II

 

They land in Afghanistan five days after Mycroft first sent out the cry for help. Five days feeling the anguish along their dwindling link.

 

John knows he is lucky to have even made it into the country. Despite threatening to fly to Afghanistan on his own wings if he had too, Mi6 had little interest in wasting resources on a rookie agent. It was Smith that had convinced them to risk the mission. John’s not actually sure what the man said to the higher ups, but permission was granted.

 

“The Colonel is waiting for you,” says a stern faced soldier, when they step off the plane.

 

John follows Smith’s lead. This close, he can hardly concentrate over the agony sparking through him. Despite the pain, however, he takes comfort in the link. It means Mycroft is still alive.

 

The soldier leads them to a small building surrounded by thick concrete barriers. John takes them in curiously, they are covered in strange paintings, some are protective wards, but most of them appear to be unit mascots. There is something cheery about the chipping paint surrounded by such drab greyness.

 

Inside the building smells more of dust and sand than the outside. John finds himself twitching his nose to fight off the urge to sneeze. He takes in the cracked tile floors and the scratched walls. There is no decoration, nothing but the essential is allowed in this building. It unnerves John, the emptiness of it, even the Compound had more life to it.

 

They head into a small conference room, 5 chairs crammed around a wobbly table. There is a man and two women waiting for them.

 

“Colonel,” Smith greets, shaking the man’s hand. “Ruiz,” he says, shaking the shorter woman’s hand. To the other woman he merely inclines his head, “Gabriel.”

 

Gabriel’s gaze fixes on John. “Who is this then?”

 

“Uh, John,” John says, clenching his hand nervously, unsure if he should offer it.

 

“Hmm, fledgling,” she says, sounding amused.

 

John flushes, embarrassed, but unsure why.

 

“Gab,” Ruiz hisses, elbowing her in the ribs.

 

Gabriel huffs, but takes a seat without comment.

 

The Colonel gives an unimpressed look before turning back to Smith. “Look, Smith, I don’t know what you want me to do here. Your Agent was a good man, 7 soldiers came back because of him, but I can’t send more soldiers out into the mountains. We already sent a retrieval squad, but the demons have disappeared. There are thousands of cave systems out there, and warding makes it impossible to search for signatures, and hell, even if we could, there are so many rogue demons out there, you might not even find the right group.” Colonel sighs, leaning forward on his elbows. “I lost good men out there too, but demon’s don’t take hostages. Your agent is dead.”

 

“He’s not,” John growls, teeth gritted.

 

“I know you…”

 

“No,” John interrupts, “he isn’t dead. I can feel it. He’s my link.”

 

Colonel’s brow shoots up. “Angel links aren’t usually that strong. Why weren’t you here with him then?”

 

John looks away, biting his lip ‘til he tastes blood. “He was worried for me. Thought it would be safer back in London.”

 

Colonel sighs again, running his hand through his short-grey hair. “Look I can lend you any equipment you need, I’ll even spring for a Cougar, but I can’t lend you soldiers.”

 

“We’ll go,” Gabriel says, standing up like she’s ready to start the mission immediately.

 

“What!?” Colonel shoots out of his chair. “Absolutely not. Neither of you are allowed on missions that haven’t been signed off by a one-star or higher.”

 

“Would you care to stop me?” Gabriel asks, sounding almost bored.

 

Colonel takes a step back, “Now lets not be hasty.”

 

“If Gab wants to help them, then you know I’m in,” Ruiz says with a shrug. “Just the four of us, we can get in and out with less attention. Can you lead us to him?” she asks, attention on John.

 

He nods, “Yes, I’ve been feeling a pull in his direction since they were captured. I can find him.”

 

“Excellent, then that’s settled,” Gabriel says, heading for the door.

 

John follows quickly after her, trying to get out of the room before Colonel stops sputtering.

 

“They won’t be pleased about this,” Smith says once they are out of the building.

 

Gabriel shrugs, “Probably, but they won’t do anything about it. They’ll just caulk it up to...mythos’ eccentricity or something.”

 

“You’re a mythos?” John asks, squinting to get a better look at her. She’s taller than John, with muscular arms and shoulders. The golden hue of her aura matches beautifully with her dark complexion. “An angel?” he says, but is unsure. Something about her aura is different.

 

She laughs, rolling her eyes like he’s being ridiculous. “Come on,” she leads them around the corner to a covered patio surrounded by more of those concrete walls.

 

“Oh this’ll be good,” Ruiz says to Smith, grinning.

 

John narrows his eyes, but a moment later understands the jibe.

 

Gabriel flexs, shoulders bunching, and her wings explode into view. There are three sets! Three sets of glorious white-gold wings.

 

John stumbles back, his own wings coming out in defense.

 

Gabriel smirks, arching her wings in an impressive display. The primary set has a silver blade on the curve of her wings. It looks deadly sharp, and moves with a dexterity that suggests its anchored to the bone.

 

Her strange aura makes sense now. The earthy gold that shows a bonded angel. A happily bonded, powerful archangel to be exact. “I…” John starts, stopping when he can’t think of anything to say. He’s never met an ascended angel, not even a seraph. Face to face with an archangel is a bit like looking directly into the sun.

 

“So,” Gabriel drawls, still looking amused, “we ready for this mission or not?”

 

***

 

They leave the next day. Ruiz and Gabriel get dragged into one meeting after another, the Brass clearly isn’t happy about this mission, but the pair stay true to their word. As does Colonel, who hands over the keys for a Cougar in the morning.

 

The vehicle is apparently the smaller 4x4 version, but it is still massive. A beige behemoth, covered in armour and powerful sigils. John runs his fingers over the red cross painted on the back door. It isn’t a sigil exactly, but there is power is symbolism and belief. The cross gives a feeling of good health and protection.

 

“We’ll find him,” Gabriel says from behind him.

 

John faces her, she’s in a modified form of body armor, lighter and less restrictive. “Why did you offer to help?”

 

She claps a hand on his shoulder, over the black and white striped jumper that is his own form of armor. “I had a link, too, you know. He led me to Grace. I owe him.”

 

John narrows his eyes, head tilted in an unasked question.

 

Her lips twitch, “He also happens to be with your...Holmes.”

 

“Ahh,” John hums, understanding, “lets get them back then.”

 

They head out just as the sun crests the horizon. Ruiz drives, with Gabriel in the seat next to her. She keeps her hands pressed to the dash, golden sparks lighting from her fingers and dancing about the cab. John can feel the concealment spell, guarding them from sight and attack.

 

They make it into the mountains without issue. John can feel the link strengthening the closer they get. Mycroft is still reaching out to him, but pain makes the signal confusing. He has to close his eyes, concentrating completely on the thin strands of violet magic that call out to him.

They have to abandon the cougar at the start of a cave system, around 50 kilometers from the initial ambush.

 

“Why move them this far?” Ruiz asks, jumping down from the cab.

 

“They wanted to make sure they wouldn’t be tracked. This is higher planning then I would expect from some rogue demons,” Smith comments, glaring up at the mountain.

 

“You think they were after Mycroft?” John asks.

 

Smith nods, “I think the two of you were getting closer to the master than you expected.”

 

“Well, let’s go get them.” Gabriel flexes her hands and strange, twisted blades appear, both ends curved like a scythe.

 

John follows suite, summoning Witness.

 

 

Ruiz is armed with an M4, copper magic at the ready.

 

Smith’s magic is more subtle, hidden beneath the surface, but John feels the cold bite to the air when his shadow splits. The Nalusa Falaya grinning wickedly.

 

The entrance is wide enough for them to walk shoulder to shoulder, but they stay in a line, pressed against the left-hand wall. Gabriel leads, followed by Ruiz, John, and then Smith bringing up the rear.

 

Dark magic lingers in every crevice, frost lines the walls. It’s so cold, John can see his breath with every exhale. He has to bite his lip to keep from making any noise. He can feel Mycroft’s magic tugging at him. He wants to shout, call for his friend, but that would be suicide.

 

He doesn’t know how far they walk, the path continuing it’s slope downwards, when they run into their first demon. Gabriel is the one to notice it, she lashes out with a spinning blade, spearing the shadow that bulges strangely from the floor. Golden light burst forth, dissolving the creature in a muffled scream.

 

They halt, ears strained. Beneath their feet, the earth rumbles.

 

“Shields up,” Smith commands, stepping up to the wall across from Gabriel. He bites out a harsh word of latin, shield crackling to life. Another gutteral sound, and the Nalusa Falaya disconnects, shooting down the cave.

 

Ruiz steps up beside Gabriel, their shields blending into one copper streaked wall.

 

John joins between Ruiz and Smith, his magic completing the protections. He pulls Witness, aiming both guns down the cavern.

 

Their shields, casting magelight down the path, makes the shadows lengthen. John stares into the abyss and feels...calm. The world slips away, there is only the darkness and the battle before him.

 

The demons strike in mass. The shadows shifting and building into deformed creatures. Monsters of tooth and scale. Their screams shake the walls, rubble raining down as if the earth itself has come to life.

 

John takes aim and fires. He can’t watch the others, he can only trust them to hold the line. He’s hemorrhaging magic, each shot stealing it away, but he continues to fire.

 

“Enough,” Gabriel shouts, when the mass of beasts has finally lessoned. They only ooze along the edges of the cave now, sluggish, but still screeching. She leaps into the fray, wings and blades spinning in a deadly dance.

 

Ruiz gives a command, magic arching through the air as copper lightening. Her magic combines with Gabriel in a blinding display

 

When John manages to blink the spots from his vision, he finds the cavern filled with drifting ash. The scent of sulfur heavy on the air. “You couldn’t have done that to begin with?” he teases.

 

Gabriel huffs, walking back towards them. “Any stronger than that and the mountain would have come down too.”

 

“Ahh, best not then,” John winces.

 

“Careful,” Smith says, looking down to where his shadow has split again, blank eyes squinting up at him. “That wasn’t all of them.”

 

They continue down in the same line formation, until the path opens into a large cavern. The air is filled with the steady drip drip of water. Stalactites line the ceiling, jagged lengths of ice and rock.

 

There are a number of paths leading outward from the main chamber, but John closes in on the left hand chamber without pause. “This way,” he says, taking the lead.

 

The already stale air, goes sour the further they travel. There is a fetid stench of excrement and fear. John winces, resisting the urge to cover his nose.

 

“And the fledgling comessss,” hisses a voice from the dark. The shadows disconnect to reveal a creature that could be considered humanoid in only the loosest of terms. It’s face is deathly pale, streaked through with vines of jaundice yellow like it’s narrow eyes. It lurches forward on twisted legs ending in hooked claws. Bulging from its back are deformed parodies of the wings John carries with pride. Before him, is an archdemon.

 

“Not alone,” John quips, raising his guns and firing. The shots hit, dissolving into the demon’s barrel chest in bursts of light. The shots definitely cause damage, vines of yellow flesh bubbling up in their place, but the beast absorbs the rest with a flick of a wing.

 

“Go, I have this,” Gabriel says, leaping past John and shoving the demon into the wall with a thrust of her blades. With an air shattering roar, the titans clash.

 

John hesitates for just a moment, but Smith pushes him. “Move, they can handle it.”

 

Trusting in the archangel and her bond, John continues down the path, dodging past the fighting. He’s running now, shield out in front to light the way. He’s breathing hard by the time he reaches another open chamber. It has become even colder, the walls slick with ice.

 

Stalagmites litter the floor, rising up like spears. Something dark and smelling like rot, oozes between the pillars. John inches around the edge of the cave, keeping his shield out in front of him.

 

The gelatinous mass dribbles across the floor, as if drawn to his light. It heaves upwards, piling on top of itself. It’s body hints at a lion, one head roaring with a mane of fire. A second head bubbles into form, horns twisting forth. It slithers over the rocks, limbs twisted back in a grotesque parody of a prowl.

 

“Go,” Smith shouts, shoving him out of the way. The Nalusa Falaya shoots forward, merging with the beast. Smith gestures, launching a claymore spell.

 

Cracks form along the creature’s body. It howls in pain, limbs sprouting out of its back and surging forward.

 

Smith throws up a shield, dodging out of the way in a smooth movement.

 

John watches wide-eyed for just a moment. He has to trust Smith knows what he is doing. With a shaky breath, he shoots down the final corridor.

 

The smell has gotten worse here, trapped in such a small place and multiplied. Dried blood cloggs his senses. “Oh, Mycroft,” he whispers, coming upon a locked door. The lock is a simple enough sigil, but the black magic would make it difficult for any regular mage, for John however, it only takes a hint of holy magic. The sigil sizzles as its purified.

 

He has to shove his shoulder into the door to force it open. The wood is heavy, taking all his strength to move. The room is pitch black, the darkness like its own entity. John casts a light spell, casting the cavern in a golden glow.

 

He gags at the sight. The walls are lined in chains, but only three of them are holding bodies. The body to his right is beyond saving, an unrecognizable smear. It takes him a moment to recognize Mycroft. His chest is bare, left only in the tattered remains of uniform pants. His boots are long gone, bare feet a riot of leaking wounds. His arms are chained above his head, the fingers on both hands are clearly broken.

 

“Mycroft!” John shoots, kneeling at his side. “What did they do to you?” he breathes, hesitant to touch. His face is bruised and swollen, black curse lines slithering beneath the surface.

 

“John?” Mycroft wheezes, he manages to crack open a single eye, but the sliver of blue seems unfocused.

 

“Yeah, it’s me, you great prat. Look what happens when you leave me behind?” John snarls, grabbing the pouch he’s been carrying since Ireland. The healing stones tumble out, glinting brightly. He grabs a handful, and cups them against Mycroft’s chest, right above his heart.

 

The stones contain their own healing properties, but their facets can also filter John’s own unique magic. He has to be careful, feeding his power slowly into the stones and through them to Mycroft. He tackles the curse work first, purifying the lines. With that clear, he works on the broken bones and blood loss. “Sorry about this,” he mutters, the bones reknitting with sharp cracks.

 

Mycroft tries to scream, but only manages a gutteral noise, eyes squeezing shut against the pain.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” John murmurs, over and over. When it’s finally over, his bones have been healed, but the cuts are only scabbed over, and the bruising remains.

 

“..ack...son”

 

“What?” John asks, leaning over to break the chains, lowering Mycroft’s arms carefully.

 

Mycroft shifts his head, it lolls heavily on his neck, pointing in the direction of the last body in the room.

 

“I’ll check on him, just hold on.” John scoops up another handful of crystals, hurrying over to the other man. He can see the rise and fall of his chest, but his curse marks are worse than Mycroft’s. John runs his fingers over the blackened flesh, infusing purifying energies through the stones. The marks fade slowly, clinging to their host. John removes everything that he can, but the taint clings to the man’s lungs. John can only hope the healers on base can take care of the rest of it.

 

He unhooks the man’s bonds, and realizes that neither one of them are going to be moving under their own power any time soon.

 

“Take Mycroft, I’ll get him.”

 

John flinches, surprised to find Smith standing in the doorway. His suit jacket is missing, tie loosened, but looks remarkably put together for a man that just fought a...whatever the hell that was. “Thank you,” John nods. He moves back to Mycroft’s side, shoving the stones back into his pocket as he goes.

 

“Come on then,” he murmurs, lifting Mycroft with an arm around his side. Mycroft blinks slowly, staring at John with a confused tilt. “I’ve got you,” John reassures, taking his weight.

 

They stumble into the open cavern, Smith taking the lead. It looks like a bomb went off, black marks scorching the floor and ceiling. Most of the stalagmites are broken, shards of rock littering the floor. In the center of the madness is Smith’s shadow, the creature bulges strangely, looking at them with a contented expression that suggests it has been well fed.

 

John gives it a wide berth.

 

They run into the others on their way back. Gabriel seems to have gotten something foul all over her armor, but they are both alright, all things considered. Gabriel looks at Smith and then back at John, “Morton?”

 

John thinks of the other body, the one he tried not to look too closely at. He shakes his head.

 

She closes her eyes, takes a shuddering breath, then gives a tight nod, expression flat.

 

John wants to say something, but it isn’t the time and he has nothing to offer. Instead, they move back down the corridor they had come from, moving as quickly as they can with the injured.

 

Fresh sunlight is a blessing. John doesn’t think they’ve been in the caves more than a few hours, but the air had been oppressive, the stench of sulfur clogging his every breath.

 

Mycroft, who had recovered somewhat on the trek, winces under the bright light, turning his head into John’s shoulder to block it out.

 

John’s attention is turned to Mycroft, which is why he doesn’t immediately recognize the danger. There is something in the air, a stillness that makes him look up. A hundred yards away is a man, but something about him isn’t right, something in his stance or in his aura. John has an instant to note the gun in his hands before he is shoving Mycroft away.

 

The gunshot shatters through the air, obnoxiously loud. John pulls his wings up, a shield that should protect him, but the bullet sears through his wing and fire alights in his shoulder. As he falls, his attention never wavers from the man. The man that becomes a giant tiger before disappearing into the wind.

 

John hits the ground screaming. He tries to bat out the black flames devouring his shoulder, but his hands singe on contact. He lashes out, fighting when strong hands hold him down.

 

“John stop! You have to stop!” It’s Gabriel that’s yelling at him, but he can’t concentrate. The pain is too much.

 

Someone douses the flames, but the pain doesn’t stop. He tries to flare his wings, a protective gesture, but they flop uselessly on the ground. Someone is holding them down. His shoulder blades ache and he wonders if they will tear them out.

 

“John.”

 

Firm. Confident. Familiar. John focuses on the man saying his name. On his link, on Mycroft. He’s kneeling over him, usually stoic features creased in concern. “John, look at me,” he commands and John listens.

 

He’s shaking to his core, can’t keep completely still, but he tries. John watches as Mycroft digs into John’s own pack and pulls out the bag of stones. He dumps them on the ground, the crystals are dead, all used up. It’s useless, he thinks, but then Mycroft raises his hand. Pinched between two fingers is the smallest sliver of a stone, still glinting with magic.

 

John tries to lean away from him, Mycroft is still injured, he shouldn’t be attempting this kind of healing, but as per usual, the seer ignores him. He places the crystal over the wound in his shoulder and then presses down with his thumb.

 

It’s agony, shocks jolt down his body and into his wings. The crystal and magic both bite into him. Mycroft’s magic is different, it’s not meant for healing and doesn’t seem to know what to do. Power pools in the wound, but is stagnant, unguided.

 

John uses it on instinct, shaping and molding the foreign magic to heal the gaping hole in his own. It feels...strange. The magic isn’t quite right, but it feels complimentary somehow. He wants to take his time to examine it, use it properly, but another gunshot cracks through the air.

 

He thought the man - tiger?- had gone. He rushes the healing, shoves the magic into place like sticking duct tape over a geyser.

 

Around him is chaos. Demons have started to converge, coming from all directions. Gabriel and Ruiz are facing off what looks like three archdemons while Smith casts in wide bursts to hold off the smaller ones. Mycroft is still kneeling beside John, awake only through sheer stubbornness. He’s drained near to the point of death.

 

John summons Witness and forces Mycroft to take it. The mage gives him a bewildered look. “It will fire for you,” he says, though he doesn’t know how many shots the gun can actually manage without John funneling his magic directly into it. There is no time for hesitation, however. The sniper, John had thought gone, has only moved and is now aiming for Gabriel. Only Ruiz’s quick magic has kept the shots from hitting their target.

 

John spreads his wings, throwing himself into the air. It’s the worst pain he’s ever felt, even worse than being on fire a moment ago. His left shoulder is screaming and his left wing won’t bend properly. There is muscle and bone damage, magic structural damage, and a good chunk of feathers missing. He ignores it all.

 

The man tries to adjust his aim to John, but he is already on him, kicking him straight in the nose as he crashes into the sniper’s ledge. There is a scuffle, John takes the butt of a rifle straight to his temple, but manages to grab the weapon before another hit can crack his skull.

 

The man snarls in his face, this close, it’s obvious he’s not actually human. His red-blond hair is shot through with black stripes and his jaw is filled with teeth that are much too large and much too sharp to ever be considered human.

 

“You’re the tiger from Singapore,” John says, certain. He uses the creature’s surprise to shove him away.

 

As strong as the animal he once was, he doesn’t go far. “You are a nuisance,” he snarls, spittle spraying the ground.

 

“For the master?” John asks.

 

“For the plan,” he snaps, muscles bulging along his back, fur sprouting along his face. “You can’t be allowed to go on.” He pounces.

 

John is slammed into the ground, wings pinned for the second time, claws prick at the sensitive undersides and he thinks that Mycroft went through all that trouble just for John to die anyways. The thought makes him angry, furious! He hasn’t even found his One yet.

 

Power surges through him, golden light bursting forth from beneath his skin. The weight lifts, the tiger roaring as he is flung away in the face of such holy might.

 

John leaps after him, Witness materializing in his hand, ready to strike down the abomination, but he stumbles to a halt at the sight of the creature. It’s grinning at him, feverish eyes wide.

 

“Oh,” it exclaims, large teeth gleaming. “Master will be pleased.”

 

“What?” John asks, and in his surprise, lets the monster slip away once more. This time he can feel the transportation spell take. He can’t wallow in his frustration, however, he spins and dives back towards his companions, but the demons are gone as well. The stench of sulfur in the air is overwhelming, but there is no way that the horde was vanquished that easily. They’d been called away.

 

Mycroft is right where he left him, exhausted, but unharmed. The look he gives John is wide-eyed with shock and a hint of...fear.

 

John follows his gaze, looking over his left shoulder. “Oh,” he gasps. He doesn’t know how he could have possibly missed it, the shift. Where once he had only had one set of wings, there is now a second. Connected just below the primary set is a slightly smaller pair of wings, white with golden tips.

 

He actually can’t see the second set all that well, but he has a perfectly good view of the first. Where the bullet had pierced him in the middle of his coverts, the feathers that had survived the fire are now black, the color radiating outward like an infection. His shoulder looks even worse. The jumper Mycroft had given him had probably saved his life, but even it stood little chance against fiendfyre. Beneath the burnt wool, the wound is still open and weeping black pus, the surrounding tissue angry and inflamed. Black marks radiate out from the entry and towards his back, the first edges of his scapulars already tainted. It isn’t spreading, he can tell that much. Whether it was Mycroft’s healing or the ascension, the infection has been stopped in its path, but the remnants, John knows, are permanent.

 

“It’s alright,” John tries to assure him, but Mycroft only shakes his head.

 

“We need to leave,” Gabriel says, stepping between them. She has blood on her face, and is channelling so much magic her eyes have gone gold.

 

“Alright,” John agrees. He tries to put his wings away, but the transition is too much. He ends up having to fold them awkwardly while helping Mycroft into the back of the Cougar. Ruiz helps put Jackson in the back, before jumping up front. They are moving before Smith even finishes closing the door behind him.

 

The drive is jolting and painful, even more so with his wings crammed behind him and bent out of shape. The adrenaline of the change drops as dramatically as it had come. He feels drained, head drooping even as the car rattles his bones.

 

Mycroft, who is somehow, impossibly, still awake, leans into John, close enough to be heard over the roar of the engine. “I want to go see my little brother,” he announces.

 

“Alright?” Johns murmurs, confused.

 

“Would you like to meet him?” Mycroft asks.

 

John knows how important Sherlock is to Mycroft, knows that if the mage were to rank everything in his life by importance, that his little brother would sit at the very top. It is an honor and in many ways an apology. Instead of answering outright, John offers him a tired grin, “You owe me a new jumper.”

Mycroft laughs, equally exhausted.

 

As the vehicle lumbers back to safety, John thinks of London, and he thinks of home.

 

In the distance, the bell starts to toll.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter took so long. I had a lot I needed to happen and the picture took some time, but I'm happy with it overall. The next chapter is a big one and I have no idea how it's going to go, so that should be fun. ;P
> 
> A little note on body armor. So in the movies they always try and make it look sexy, which is hilarious because it's the most uncomfortable piece of equipment to wear, especially if you are a women. All Army equipment is sized for men, so the armor is way too big. The vest itself really just carries the large ballistic plates that make it bullet proof. The current IBA has four plates one on each side and in the front and back. The vest itself is thick and padded, designed to absorb shrapnel that the plates might not catch. They tend to be too long in the torso for women so they ride up and make sitting down a threat to strangulation, its why when most women wear body armor you'll see them with both hands holding onto the collar, they are constantly pulling the vest down to stop it from choking them. There is absolutely zero contour to the vest and very little in the plates, so if you have anything larger than an A cup, the vest will ride up even more and put a lot of pressure on your chest. Don't get me wrong, they are life saving pieces of equipment, but I drew Gabriel in a bulky vest because that's how they are, and I still ended up giving her more contour then they really have. Wearing an IBA feels a bit like being an upside down turtle, except your shell weighs 50lbs.


	23. The One

****

****

# **Chapter Twenty-Three: The One**

 

Lestrade should have known better. Even in the short time he has been acquainted with Sherlock Holmes, the phrase ‘ _ Your brother is back in London. He wants to see you _ ’ was always going to lead to erratic behavior. But, of course, when he explained that Mycroft would send a car for them tomorrow, Sherlock had immediately jumped into action. 

 

“I said tomorrow,” Lestrade shouts, watching Sherlock grab odds and ends around the house, moving quicker than Lestrade has seen him since the accident. 

 

Sherlock pulls on his coat like the final plate of armor, lapels up and glinting. “As if I'd let him have the upper hand, ha. My brother never gives notice before a meeting and now he’s asking for twenty-four hours. No, he’s up to something.” 

 

“Or maybe it’s just jetlag,” Lestrade suggests, though he knows it’s fruitless. With a sigh, he grabs his keys. “Do you at least know where he is?” 

 

Sherlock pauses, turning bandaged eyes in his direction. 

 

Lestrade takes a moment to savor the quickly hidden surprise. 

 

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock says, pasting on a haunty air. 

 

Lestrade rolls his eyes. “Alright then, let’s go visit your brother.” 

 

***

 

The address Sherlock leads him to is off one of the quaint little side streets of London. The sort of side street lined with old brick row houses all with carefully manicured lawns and elaborate floral arrangements in the window boxes. It’s the sort of houses that looks like they would be perfect to raise a new family, but actually cost 10 mil and are owned by minor royalty. 

 

He parks along the curb. There are no signs that say he can’t park, but there isn’t a single car to be seen. It makes him nervous. Actually, he feels anxious, twitchy. There is a sudden urge to display his wings. He can only assume it’s a result of all the warding that must be in this kind of neighborhood, but he can’t shake the feeling. 

 

Sherlock exits the car without a care, but pauses on the sidewalk, head turning slowly from side to side. 

 

Lestrade waits knowing better than to ask if he needs help. 

 

Finally, Sherlock turns and walks to the house on the right. He gestures vaguely at the garden, “Mycroft has a fondness for daffodils.” 

 

It’s still a little early in the season, but sure enough, Lestrade notices the bright yellow flowers lining the path. He doesn’t smell any noticeable difference, but no surprise there.

 

Sherlock marches right up to the front door and pounds on it like he’s about to knock it down. 

 

“Shhh, christ, Sherlock. There is a doorbell,” Lestrade winces, walking over. He can’t help glancing around him, still feeling strange. 

 

The door opens to reveal a man that is probably in his early twenties, but the exhaustion lining his eyes makes him look older. That’s the only thing Lestrade notices before the noise starts. He claps his hands over his ears, but it does nothing, the ringing is coming from within, the tones of a great bell knocking against his skull. It’s feels like he is being torn apart, no, it feels like he is being _ remade _ . 

 

 

His wings are ripped painfully from their pocket dimension, unfurling in a cloud of silver feathers. He’s gasping for breath, knees crashing to the hard concrete beneath, but still he does not take his eyes off the man before him. 

 

The man looks at him with wide, surprised eyes, brow etched with concern.

 

“Detective?” he says, kneeling down, and when he places his hand on Lestrade’s shoulder, the touch burns. There is a bright flare of power, gold and purple magicks twisting together in a blinding display. 

 

When the magic settles back down, reduced to a humming glint beneath their skin, Lestrade finally realizes what has happened. He reaches out, fingers trailing along the man, Mycroft’s, jaw. There are old cuts and bruises on his face, and more wounds hidden deeper. Lestrade reaches out to them with his power, healing them with barely a thought. It’s so easy, like breathing. His magic responds in a way it never has before, quick as light when put to it’s one true purpose. 

 

His lips twitch into a smile, he can only imagine the look he must have on his face. “Hello.” 

 

Mycroft simply looks stunned, but he copies Lestrade’s smile, “Hello.”  

 

“What the hell?” Sherlock interrupts. 

 

Lestrade looks over to find Sherlock wrapped protectively in his cloak, hair standing straight on end from the magical discharge. He can’t help it, he laughs. 

 

***

 

Once Lestrade manages to find his legs again, Mycroft leads them to the parlor, where Lestrade promptly sinks into the closest armchair. His wings are still out, so he ends up with them half sprawled over the arms, he’s leaving a trail of feathers everywhere, but he’s too tired to do anything about it. Maybe the healing had been a bad idea. 

 

“Explain,” Sherlock growls, flopping into another chair with his usual drama. 

 

“First, I’d like to know why you appear to have gone blind in my absence,” Mycroft snaps, but the bite of it is lost somewhat in the way he takes the seat closest to Lestrade, reaching out the run soothing fingers over the mess of his wings. 

 

Sherlock scoffs, like that’s an unreasonable request. “A bit of an accident,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

 

“It was more than that. He used a poison concoction to go soul gazing. Mrs. Hudson was able to save his eyes and he may have some sight after the bandages can be removed, but most likely it’s permanent,” Lestrade explains. He’s rather surprised at himself, because he hadn’t actually intended to say all that, but Mycroft had asked. Well, that was...disconcerting. 

 

Sherlock actually manages to glare in his direction. 

 

Lestrade rubs the back of his head, “Err, Mycroft, he’s my...well he’s mine. That magic surge was the bond taking hold.”

 

“Yes, that was,” Mycroft looks down, gaze fixed on the wing beneath his hand, “that was unexpected.” 

 

“You!” Sherlock snaps, sitting up so he can give a proper stomp. 

 

“Sherlock please,” Mycroft shushes, “Though I doubt he slept through that, John is resting.” 

 

“Oh,” Lestrade says, feeling oddly hurt considering he just met the man, “is he your partner?”

 

“No,” Mycroft reels, looking taken aback, but his expression turns wry as he admits, “Well yes actually, but not in the way you mean. He’s my partner at work. The mission we just got back from, it was...let’s just say it was something I’d rather never repeat. Neither one of us returned unscathed.” 

 

“Oh, and since when does the Department of Transportation have missions?” Sherlock snarks. 

 

Mycroft actually rolls his eyes, an action Lestrade guesses only Sherlock could invoke. 

 

“You know very well that I was not recruited by the Department of Transportation. My mission is an ongoing one with Mi6. We are on a momentarily leave to recover.” 

 

Sherlock stands up, walking over to Mycroft with an unreadable expression. 

 

Lestrade resists the urge to come between them, this is ridiculous, they are brothers.

 

Stopping just a little too close, Sherlock reaches forward and takes Mycroft’s wrist. They stand like that for a long moment. Lestrade doesn’t sense any magical exchange, but Sherlock nods like they’ve just had an extensive conversation. Whatever insight he gleaned, however, he only says, “You’ve lost weight.”

 

Mycroft smiles, a small, cautious thing. “Yes, I imagine I have.” 

 

Lestrade realizes with sudden dread, that he bonded into this madness. 

 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I’ve had some major writer’s block lately. I actually should be posting a chapter of Sky first, but I’m completely stuck on that one right now so here is this. Also I’m mid move/vacation right now so I’m scannerless. The pictures are still done in the inking style, but I drew them digitally.


End file.
